


The seven step ultimate hangover remedy

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Liverpool F.C., M/M, New York City, One Night Stands, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It takes seven steps to cure a hangover.”<br/>“Unless all of those steps involve lying horizontally until it passes,” Philippe snapped, “I wasn’t aware, no.”<br/>-<br/>We met each other on a Sunday morning, both doing the walk of shame AU, or: Emre claims he can cure Philippe's hangover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The seven step ultimate hangover remedy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [解除宿醉的七步妙计](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225193) by [Blancassavoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blancassavoy/pseuds/Blancassavoy)



> Okay so mostly this fic is me wanting to write a) this AU b) Emre "Sex On Legs" Can and c) the only thing in the world possibly more adorable than Philippe Coutinho, which is a slightly grumpy Philippe Coutinho.
> 
> Not only are these characters total figments of my imagination but I have been to New York exactly one time and for whatever reason my head wanted it set here- everything that wasn't an actual experience came from Google.

 

 

 

 

Philippe had never envisaged a scenario where he could have classed himself as a bigger idiot than Alberto.

Right now, he was going to have to revaluate that judgement, in the light of the last six probably most chaotic hours of his life. This was saying a lot; given that he had the impression far too often that his roommate had so much synapse it was remarkable that he could connect his two brain cells.

He decided that he was never, ever drinking alcohol again, ever.

Wind roared through the station and Philippe hugged his coat around himself. The clock on the side of the station read 06:01.

Philippe was sure that today was the day he would die.

It had taken him ten solid minutes to get up the steps from Broadway to the overhead track, crumbling every two or three into a useless heap caught somewhere between frustrated crying and vomiting.

 _This is the worst day of your life_ , his head continued to repeat. _This is the worst day of your life. Worst. Day. Of. Your. Life._

He moaned, lifting his collar of his coat to cover his nose and mouth, hoping it would do the same job as paper bags on aeroplanes. He didn’t know their precise function, they were either to stop hyperventilation or to vomit in to; but right now either use was probably going to be called upon in the near future.

06:02.

The train was due at 06:02.

 _Hurry the fuck up_ , he thought desperately, twisting to look down the track, down the deserted platform. He didn’t think an MTA platform could be deserted, but maybe it was a testament to the hour, to the fact that it was Sunday.

A morning baking smell wafted up from the busy street under the platform, and a fresh stab of nausea hit Philippe in the stomach. _Bread, grease, icing._ Then: _sewers. Dog shit. Petrol fumes. The East River._

At the last his gag reflex twitched against the back of his throat.

  _I hate Brooklyn_.

In all honestly it was the first time he’d ever been in the Brooklyn. He’d never crossed the river before and everything felt weird and alien. And he was only at the first stop in to Brooklyn.

06:03

Maybe he’d never been to Brooklyn before because the goddamn trains were never on time.

In the distance, the sky was growing pink.

There had been a subway map on the wall beside the ticket machine. Philippe contemplated walking over to look at it- because all Dejan (try not to think about Dejan) had said was to take the M, because that would bring him in to Manhattan over the bridge - but he had no idea what changes to make once he got there.

He should know. Maybe he did know. He had no excuses- he’d grown up looking at that same subway layout his whole life. But his brain felt disconnected and float-y and he had never felt more like a total bonehead in the entire duration of his existence, so he wasn’t exactly in a position to motivate himself to remember right now.

06:04

God. Dammit.

A man in a suit hopped up the steps down at the other end of the platform. Annoyingly perky. After he’d skipped through the turnstiles he put down his briefcase, straightened his jacket, tightened his far-too-shiny tie. He looked up at the clock on the side of the platform; frowned, and then pulled back his sleeve to look at a watch that, Philippe could tell from several meters away, probably cost the entire salary he was getting from his internship.

_Why would you even need to take public transport if you can afford a watch like that?_

Well, at least he wasn’t on his own any more. Like it was comforting, like Philippe hadn’t already decided on the way here as people spared him no graces and knocked in to his already unsteady frame, that he hated all people ever.

At least he would have a witness to when he spontaneously combusted, and died, and maybe threw up all over the platform.

His throat already felt coated and slick and the inside of his mouth tasted like over-cooked Weet-a-bix. Philippe didn’t know if he could deal with emptying the contents of his stomach again, and was pretty sure the reason he hadn’t resumed doing so was because there was nothing left in it to throw up.

06:05

Mr Suit took out his iPhone and unlocked it with an obnoxiously loud click that echoed through the empty station. He frowned at that screen now instead.

Philippe’s hand shot reflexively into his coat pocket and closed around his phone, remembering a millisecond too late that the battery had died while they were at the party last night. It was dead.

About as dead as Philippe felt inside.

So: very dead.

The sudden movement left his stomach reeling again, and he cursed himself as he buried his face in to the elbow of his coat, not really thinking, not really breathing until his guts solved themselves of their seasickness.

His underwear itched against the inside of his thigh, and his coat smelled of fags and beer.

He remembered that there had been yellow sweat stains in the underarms of his shirt when he’d put it back on this morning.

Philippe closed his eyes. He pulled the hood of his coat over his head and tried not to think, tried not to discern the smells, about the vague taste of bile at the back of his throat, that these were yesterday’s clothes, the probability that he reeked, the vague sensation of needing to shit his pants, and not about Dejan, and definitely not about Dejan.

06:06

06:07

The train arrived at 06:08.

* * *

 

**[Step 1: Sip orange juice and slowly fill up on carbs]**

Philippe made sure to get on a different carriage to Mr Suit. He sat down just as the warning siren sounded and the doors shut with a rubbery _whump_.

The car had only one other passenger. Fine. Good.

Even better, above the door was a subway plan. He squinted at it- he had to get out at-

His entire internal cavity rocked as the train rattled to life. Something caustic and vile swished in his stomach as he was heaved sideways in to the side of the compartment, smacking his knee off one of the support poles with an audible _twang_.

He groaned and closed his eyes. He tipped forward to place his head between his knees.

A song from the stereo at the party chose that moment to enter his head. An electronic beat, stupid senseless lyrics. Hopelessly catchy.

Philippe thought about the words, trying to unravel them, pretty sure that he was interpreting them wrong- but whatever. It was a really effective remedy to nausea. Something to tie him to consciousness.

There was an itch in the back of his brain, at the end of his fingers. He was grappling in his pocket for cool plastic before he realised what he was doing, too late, _again._ Was this a smart phone generation thing? That he needed to check Facebook every five minutes? Because as hard as he tried he couldn’t shake the fear that froze him mid-spine at the potential of photos from last night.

In his daydreams the possibility had only left him feeling pride. Now he wondered how repulsed his Mom would be if she logged on and saw it.

He’d be home soon, though: to his bed and his phone charger. Alberto wouldn’t be up until lunch, probably, so maybe Philippe would have several hours to lie in bed and cry out his shame until then.

He took a deep breath and sat up again in the seat.

The only other passenger sat directly across from him, his back to the window. He had enormously broad shoulders and his legs spread off the seat and Philippe didn’t need any more clues to tell him that this guy was superhumanely constructed. He had a jaw that was also superhumanely square, his skin was the dark end of sallow and even though he wore thick framed sunglasses that were the same black as his facial hair; Philippe noted the knit in his brows.

He was very still, too still, _asleep or dead_. Not that Philippe could tell, with the sunglasses and all. He wondered where this guy was going looking so stylishly sloppy: an oversized sock for a beanie, probably, denim jacket trendily faded and with his hands pushed in to the pockets of his too-loose sweats. _Welcome to Brooklyn._

Philippe suddenly felt too warm and unzipped his coat. Then he immediately remembered with a whoosh of cold air that it was November and zipped it back up. His lower back and underarms felt uncomfortably moist as his body temperature fell again. Fever. This was his immune system loading the cannons for one serious up-chuck.

Philippe closed his throat over and resolutely refused to throw up on public transportation.

The train shuddered at the bottom of the bridge and slowly began its ascent. This was immediately easier, the tracks steadied, the carriage no longer jerked.

After about five seconds, Philippe let his eyes drift over the other shoulder of his fellow commuter. They’d started climbing the Williamsburg Bridge, inching, crawling, _oh my God so impossibly_ slow, Philippe was going to have to recalculate his ETA to his duvet.

Philippe was also pretty sure that if he opened his mouth he was not going to like the solids evacuating from it. When he turned his head away his brain rattled around inside his skull, so he abruptly stopped.

Philippe refused to open his eyes.

Who even wore a beanie indoors. It was clearly a sign of male patterned baldness. And this guy could only be in his twenties.

The tin can that passed for a train started to descend. In a few seconds Philippe would sense the world outside the carriage plunging in to darkness. It still sent a jolt through him when it did.

Philippe suddenly knew he wouldn’t make it as far as the station.

He leapt to his feet and tumbled towards the door, pushing his face against the glass of the window. It froze his cheek, but it was no use when his entire body felt on fire.

The carriage began to slow. Philippe smashed his hand against the window in frustration, like that could possibly help it hurry up. He would not throw up on the train. He would _not_.

His throat felt thick and heavy and weighed him down. Heat pulsed through his body in waves, and when the train came to a shuddering stop, his stomach sloshed his brain sloshed in his head, _Christ_ , there were dark spots flashing in front of his eyes.

The fluorescent lights of the platform when he finally felt out on it were disorientatingly bright and blinded him for a second, before he realised he was on all fours on the ground and people were stepping over him on to the carriage. His elbows nearly gave way as he pushed himself up and staggered forward, fastened his hands around the edge of a trashcan, opened his mouth, and promptly emptied his stomach.

His throat burned, the smell was putrid and horrible and the inside of his mouth felt raw. Bile scorched his tongue. His fingers curled around the boreal plastic and he forced his eyes shut. Tremors began at his hips and ended with his body shaking, a quivering, useless lump of flesh and absolutely no bones, apparently.

He’d lie here for a bit. Get the next train.

Or maybe the train after.

Or maybe just lie here forever.

“You alright?”

The voice was deep with a softness to its edges.

The tremors reached his hands now, they slipped from the ring of the trash can and he fell with a thud on his knees.

After several seconds of internal war, he managed to get one eye to squint open.

It was Beanie Man from the train. He still had his head covered and all Philippe could see was his own distorted form in the endless black of his sunglasses, but now there were three very straight creases across the guy’s forehead; that stretched from one temple to another. They deepened as he leaned over Philippe now and frowned.

“Ugh,” Philippe managed. Twenty-two years on the island of Manhattan and the only strangers who ever spoke to Philippe on the subway were drunken people and heroin addicts. And Superman now, apparently.

“Do you need help?” the guy asked. He had rather large lips that were topped with a well sculpted moustache; Philippe supposed that whatever hair that was left under his beanie was the same shade of inky black.

“Nuh,” Philippe moaned in dissent. He realised belatedly that the weird whimpering animal sounds he heard were coming from him. His calves jerked as they trembled, knocking against the tiles of the floor.

The lines on the guy’s forehead deepened. Philippe was willing to guess that, from his point of view, the stricken, snivelling wisp of a human shuddering on the ground after having emptied his guts in to a Manhattan bin was the _definition_ of needing help.

“Is there someone I can call for you?”

Philippe wouldn’t have been able to connect enough numbers together to form Alberto’s. He shook his head.

Philippe felt rather than saw him hesitate. Then a large hand smoothed gently around his elbow.

Dull alarm bells sounded in Philippe’s brain. Not too loud though, his brain was a bit sensitive. “No,” he tried, voice feeble. _I don’t know you_.

“At least let me help you get some air.” With the use of one enormous hand, Philippe had been lifted to his feet.  He wobbled, and the guy’s grip tightened.

He was so weak that he was beyond protesting. Every single common sense brain cell he had told him that he shouldn’t trust a told stranger to lead him anywhere, this guy that was twice his size in probably every way, and there was a possibility that this was the beginning of Philippe Coutinho never being seen or heard from again.

He fastened one hand to the hem of the guy’s denim jacket as he was led towards the stairs. As an anchor, it was effective: he could concentrate at the feel of the rough material and how it scratched the pads of his fingers, how it felt kind of gritty and stiff, like it had often been washed.

Philippe wondered why he was wearing sunglasses. _Sunglasses_. Ridiculous. It was half past six in the morning. They were _inside_.

Smells were still setting him off. As they took it one step at a time, wind blew down the stairwell straight in to Philippe: fumes, burnt rubber and deep fried foods; and also what must have been the guy’s smell: cigarette smoke, fabric softener and musky aftershave that made Philippe’s throat tighten, but… in a way that wasn’t bad.

Dejan had smelled weirdly like generic hand soap. The smell would probably follow him around for the rest of his life and make him cringe. It was unfortunate that such a common and necessary commodity would now forever remind him of the most embarrassing and awkward night of his entire life. Probably.

The second they reached the top of the steps, Philippe forced his hands to let go.

“I’m f-f-fine now,” he said, teeth chattering. “Thanks.”

The guy threw him a glance back over his shoulder, his eyebrows knitting further together.

“You’re not,” is all he said. Then he jerked him after him again. It was a miracle that Philippe’s feet landed the right way up on the concrete.

They stopped at a pedestrian crossing. Philippe swayed. He considered the possibility that there was no blood left in his head. Everything was kind of hazy.

Philippe questioned if this guy even knew how to let go. He’d never been to this part of Manhattan and all of the buildings were so _small_. There was so much _space_. So much _open air._

When they started forward again the hand on his curve of his elbow increased its pressure.

 _Fuck it_ , Philippe decided. _My life is already ruined. Might as well let a total stranger lead me down some dodgy alley on the Lower East Side to murder me violently. I don’t care._

Not that Philippe could have run. There were still intermittent tremors in his legs. His knees maybe no longer connected them.

Beanie guy pushed open a door to his right, shepherding Philippe inside in front of him.

The diner, fryer, vinegar smell hit Philippe before he could even register his surroundings.

“Oh God,” he groaned out loud. The taste of vomit was still fresh in his mouth. Too fresh. He didn’t want to revisit it again. His next inhale was accompanied with a new wave of nausea.

“You’ll be alright.” The guy bizarrely made a victory sign at the waitress behind the counter as he guided Philippe to one of the booths, which he slumped down in to gratefully, finally letting his overheating forehead rest against the cool table top.

A sense of balance returned to his body.

“I’m dying,” he croaked, mostly to himself.

“You have a hangover,” came the reply.

“Dying,” he countered, uncertainly. Philippe lifted his head just in time to witness his saviour shrug off his jacket, and then he wished that he hadn’t.

The guy’s shoulders weren’t just broad because he was huge; they were broad because he was _built_. As his shoulders rolled back his crisp white v-neck pulled against his chest: collar pronounced, showing off some very well chiselled pectoral muscles. He folded his jacket and placed it carefully down in to the booth- when he did, Philippe marvelled at the implicit strength in the buffed curve of his upper arms, reflecting briefly on his own comparably milky toothpicks.

Philippe didn’t even care that he was staring. His eyes were fixed on him as he slid in to the opposite seat, letting his head shift so now it was only his cheek pressed to the countertop.

The guy raised an enormous hand and pulled his sock/beanie from his head, and Philippe had been so wrong about the male pattered baldness thing because as it turned out, all the hat had hidden was a particularly floofy crest of dark hair, gelled back to his crown. With his other hand he smoothed it back, chunks of shiny charcoal strands cracking off and sliding from the crest of his head. Philippe decided that either his gel was of an abysmal quality or that he had been wearing it for a while. He did consider the possibility that it just hadn’t been washed, but Philippe knew that in his current state if anyone in a five meter radius smelled of BO he would have noticed.

“Why did you make a peace sign at the waitress?” he wheezed.

“Hmmm?” He was now pulling his sunglasses off, folding them closed on top of his hat. Philippe watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, scowling in to his palm. He had large, dark circles under his eyes, and blinked sleepily when he rubbed his fingers down his face, stifling a yawn.  “No, not a peace sign,” a small huff of air the only sign of his amusement. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, not quite as substantial as that on his upper lip, when he turned his neck and let his gaze fall back to the counter. “Two.”

“Uh?” Philippe asked, instead of _two what?_ The back of his throat was beginning to feel slick again.

“Breakfasts,” the guy continued. “Hangover cure step one.” He looked back at Philippe; his eyes were so dark that they were almost black; the only hint of colour a honeyed shine as the sun reached them when he turned; dwarfed by his heavy set brows. Philippe couldn’t decide if he looked amused or concerned, but he knew he would have preferred it if it were neither.

“I’m not hungover,” Philippe tried weakly. Then “I don’t have any money,” quickly, almost forgetting that only moments ago he had been sure he would murdered down a side street for his all of his worldly possessions.

“You are hanging,” right, that was definite amusement, “out of your ass. Don’t deny it. And,” he shook his head. “Don’t worry about the food.”

“No,” Philippe argued, “I can’t take that, I-“bile was forcing its way back up his oesophagus, so he quickly shut his mouth.

“No, really,” the guy added, “don’t. I used to work here. It’s always on the house.”

Philippe, while no longer a broke student but now very definitely a broke graduate, knew better than to question a free meal, and in whatever shape or form it came in. He considered asking how on earth he could manage to get himself in to such a free-mealing position.

“Ugh.” Philippe closed his eyes again and figured he’d work how to articulately thank him later.

“Almost a pity you couldn’t have held on a few more stops to SoHo. I hope you like pancakes.”

“Why? Did you work there too?”

Porcelain clinked against plastic.

“Sort of.”

Philippe kept his eyes shut as he felt the clunk of the plates on the table, with good reason, because that buttery fresh pancake smell was as vile as it was delectable. Even worse, the apple-y scent of the waitress’ perfume. He was sure on an ordinary day it was nice, but apparently right now his olfactory cells were taking personal offence to it.

“Welcome back, Emre,” she said, with a light, tinkling laugh. Philippe pretended that he hadn’t taken a peek; he hadn’t seen her hand lingering at the edge of one of his solid shoulders. Emre gave her a smile back, and Philippe could tell it was formulaic, but _still_ : even though Philippe wasn’t the intended recipient, he felt the implied trust in that small quirk of lips and had to struggle not to be pulled in to it.

Emre. _Emre_. Was it his name, or a nickname? At least it was better than Beanie Guy. Probably not quite as good as Superman.

Emre, so.

From Philippe’s head on the table, he looked even larger and more formidable than before. Philippe pulled himself up to sit, with some difficulty, like a marionette on strings: stiff, certain joints moving considerably more fluidly than others.

Emre ate with his elbows on the table, slicing in to the steaming food with swift and deliberate strokes of cutlery. After that smile at the waitress, Philippe saw it now:  he saw it in every movement, he realised bitterly. Emre with blessed with an aura of calm, a demeanour of peace hung around his shoulders and there was something unguarded in his silence, as though there was nothing left to say; even though there was everything to say- but then again, all he’d done was peel a violently spewing Philippe from the floor of a subway station and put food in from of him.

It was so nice it should have been _suspicious_ , but for whatever reason, something about his ethereal presence gave Philippe the impression that such an action, and despite this intimidating outer shell, was not at all out-of-sorts with his personality.

He looked up when he realised that Philippe was watching him. “Eat”, he commanded, jabbing his fork at the plate in front of him.

Philippe could not even bring himself to look at what it contained. The inside of his mouth suddenly felt like it had been coated with flour- dry and slimy and tasting bland and a little sour.

“I’m not hungry,” he explained delicately. “But thank you.”

Emre chewed like he’d forgotten about it. “I’m not doing this because I like you,” he said, swallowing, “I’m doing this because I wouldn’t wish the state you’re in on my worst enemy. You need to eat something.”

“I’ll be sick again.”

“You’ll have something to throw up, then.”

The waitress arrived back with a jug full of neon orange juice and sloshed it in to two glasses on the table. Philippe thought of her fingers lingering on Emre’s shoulder, thought of his smile, made the sexual connection, and suddenly couldn’t look at either of them. He could only think of Dejan and _God_ how fragile he felt before couldn’t match this.

Unfortunately looking away didn’t leave him with many places to look, apart from his plate, bringing him full circle on his problems.

Emre paused, and in his peripheral vision, the glass of juice was nudged to him. “Eat,” the command came again.

“I’d rather not.” He was not going to cry. Not again.

“Have you never had a hangover before, or what?”

There was something mocking in Emre’s tone and Philippe was filled with a sudden, raging need to defend himself.

“ _No_ ,” he insisted, ignoring the smirk that graced Emre’s face, like he found Philippe’s current state actually funny.

“Then you would know that step number one is eating carbs.” He extended a long arm again- Philippe’s eyes fixed involuntarily on one large bicep- and pushed the glass of orange closer. “And taking your OJ.”

“Says who.”

Emre blinked. A slow,  glorious,  long-lashed blink. “Says everyone. It takes seven steps to cure a hangover.”

“Unless all of those steps involve lying horizontally until it passes,” Philippe snapped, “I wasn’t aware, no.”

“So you don’t.”

“Don’t _what_.”

“Get a lot of hangovers,” the more frustrated Philippe became, it seemed, and the more Emre appeared to be entertained. “About as many hangovers as walks of shame, am I right?”

Philippe stopped. Walkofshame _what._

Emre cocked one eyebrow. “Oh, I always recognise one of my own,” he said blithely, with a dismissive wave of his fork.

Philippe was either going to throw up again, or melt in to a mortified puddle on the floor.

 _Well_ , was his only thought, _this explains the state of his hair gel._

But what he couldn’t understand was that the rest of him was immaculate. Philippe surely smelled something rank: there was a possibility that there was puke on some part of his trousers, his shirt was crusty with stale sweat and he hadn’t even _looked_ at his hair. But Emre looked like this was just a casual part of his morning routine.

 _How_.

“Where do you have to go?” Emre asked. When Philippe blinked at him he added: “to get home.”

“153rd street and Broadway.” Philippe gave it obediently, forgetting in his self-pitying moment this guy was still a total stranger.

It was the closest thing that Emre had come to an exclamation in the twenty short minutes that Philippe had known him. That was to say, it wasn’t much of one. “What brought you to _Brooklyn_?”

 _Dejan_ , Philippe thought miserably, _because I am a Grade-A idiot_. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t stop his face from changing, and Emre obviously understood the expression.

“Okay,” Emre frowned thoughtfully. When he did the lines came back to his forehead, and his lips drew together like a taught archery bow, and suddenly Philippe wondered at density and pressure and softness and _oh my God_.

It must be a hangover thing. Wanting to jump everyone you saw.

“You’re in no state to get back on a subway. And probably no good for a cab, either.” Emre chewed and contemplated him, his head seemingly unconsciously tilting to one side.

“What were _you_ doing in Brooklyn?” Philippe interrupted.

Emre snorted. It wasn’t that it made any noise or anything; it was that he breathed out a little harder than before, so clearly he found something higher than the normal level of funny. “I just told you I had a one-nighter, right?”

“I…” Philippe stopped, “ _know_. _But_.”

Emre pointed at Philippe’s pancake. “Eat,” he delicately placed another forkful in his mouth, “and I’ll tell you.”

Philippe looked at him. Philippe looked at his fork, untouched on the table. He carefully lifted it, firmly closed the back of his throat, and chiselled a piece from the edge of the stack of pancakes in front of them. They were swimming in maple syrup. Philippe’s stomach churned.

“I’m going to be sick,” he warned.

“I promise, you won’t be.”

Philippe didn’t know why he wanted to know so much. So next time he could avoid looking a state, he told himself. It wasn’t that he was envious of someone else’s sex life, or anything. So he put the pancake in to his mouth.

It was like chewing paper. It tasted heavy and gloopy and vile, the syrup was too sweet; bits of food cemented his teeth together. He glared at Emre, furiously struggling to get his jaw unstuck. Emre’s liney forehead lessened only slightly- almost in encouragement- and he tipped the orange juice glass towards him. Philippe picked it up, mostly because if Emre pushed it any more it would topple from the edge of the table and all over his lap. He only let the slightest bit pass his lips, but it reacted with the bland pancake and the bile still at the back of his throat and he _just_ about stopped himself from gagging as it went down.

Emre drank from his own glass. “You’re making me feel sick just looking at you. Alright,” he paused, “what was I doing in Brooklyn? My ex.”

Philippe’s insides didn’t like their present occupants. It took a full minute of him sitting there with his eyes closed and with his hands tight to the edge of the seat, before he was sure that the sudden spike in his body temperature wouldn’t result in any more evacuation of body fluids. Then it took him another minute to compose himself enough to reply.

“Was that,” he tried, “supposed to be funny?”

“No,” Emre replied calmly. The lack of ripples in his manner was actually infuriating.

“Can they be your ex if you’re still…?”

“Having sex?” Emre finished, like he was saying “playing tennis”, or even “eating pancakes”- euphemisms Philippe would have to save away for later, because Alberto would undoubtedly find them hilarious. “Well. Yeah. When he was with me he was doing his boss, and now that he’s with his boss, he’s doing me.”

 _He_.

Philippe couldn’t help glancing after the waitress. If Emre noticed, he didn’t say anything; prompting Philippe to study him a bit harder. Emre’s gaze was unwavering. Also, his face wasn’t entirely symmetrical- as Philippe had previously thought. His nose ran in a continuous line from his forehead wasn’t entirely straight; it sat to one side, like maybe someone had pushed it. _Or punched it; which I could understand_ , Philippe thought unkindly, then instantly regretted it.

He didn’t know why he dug that out. Probably because his face might has well been part of a baroque sculpture. And judging by his apparent upper body strength- the rest of him might as well have been too.

Philippe didn’t normally dislike people on sight (especially when they fed him), if anything, he never did: but something about this guy set him off even though he was reassured by his presence. He wanted to get a reaction from him.

“Are you,” he began uncertainly, “making fun of me?”

Emre blinked. “No.” He said it so shortly that Philippe couldn’t doubt in the truth in it.

Awkward silence fell at their table. Philippe managed another nibble of cardboard pancake. He wondered if this restaurant just had a terrible chef. It was on the Lower East Side after all.

He knew he shouldn’t blame the restaurant. He knew he should blame vodka.

“So…” two tiny mouthfuls and his stomach felt uncomfortably full, but something like strength was returning to the end of his fingers, and something like confidence was dribbling through his veins. “This hangover cure,” he tried politely, “it works?” God, being polite wasn’t normally this _hard_. If this had been a cartoon Philippe wondered if he would have his own personal tiny storm cloud raining over his head. “I mean. I want to get home.”

Emre was mopping his plate clean with his last morsel of pancake. “Guaranteed,” he mumbled, munching. “Sometimes it doesn’t take all of the steps. But, foolproof.”

“And step one was eat and drink juice?”

He saw Emre hide something that looked suspiciously like a smile behind his hand when he wiped around his mouth with a paper napkin.

“ _Try_ to eat,” he said, nodding at Philippe’s plate. “But yes.” His hand reached down to his side of the table and Philippe saw him fishing for something in what was presumably his jacket laid out beside him. “Here,” he tossed the white pill bottle neatly across the table, spinning it through the air in two exact loops.

Philippe had been so awed by the neatness of its trajectory that it sailed through the air and landed square in the middle of the forehead.

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” he swore. “ _Jesus._ ” He rubbed at the sore patch and scrabbled around the side of the bench, searching for the guilty objet.”I think you dislocated my brain.”                    

Emre’s lips twisted into a half-smile that might have been contained laughter.

This guy was a jackass.

“Aspirin,” Philippe read from the inscription on the side of the bottle. He shook it. Pills rattled inside like a pharmaceutical maraca.

“Step two,” Emre explained. “Aspirin to thin your blood out a bit. But,” when Philippe reached for the glass of juice, “wash it down with water.”

“I mean,” Philippe said out loud, “I don’t know you. How do I know it’s aspirin and not, I dunno, rohypnol?”

Emre ignored him. Philippe wondered if maybe he was a bit insulted. He supposed, that if he had denied it, Philippe would have probably come to the conclusion that it was exactly the kind of thing something about to roofie him would say. He traced the inscription with the edge of the nail on his thumb.

Well, if it wasn’t a generic, across-the-counter aspirin bottle, it definitely was a pretty good copy of one. He unscrewed the lid. Certainly looked like aspirin. He sniffed at the mouth of the container cautiously, although he had no idea why, because he didn’t have a clue what aspirin smelled like.

“If you’re quite done,” Emre said plainly, “I’d like one.”

“Sorry.” Philippe handed it back hurriedly. When he did, their fingers brushed. For someone who as walking around New York in November wearing only a denim jacket, Emre’s hand was surprisingly warm.

“I have a question,” Emre started, “if it’s not too indelicate.”

Philippe had gone back to prodding at his pancake tower with his fork and wallowing in his own misery. He looked up in surprise.

“And if it’s not going open a can of worms that I don’t want to hear, because sob stories aren’t my thing.” Philippe could imagine. Emre was reading the instructions on the aspirin bottle. He placed it carefully down in the middle of the table.

Philippe nodded. _Go ahead_.

“Who,” Emre began, “were _you_ doing in Brooklyn?”

* * *

 

**[Step 2: Wash down with water and add aspirin if needed]**

Philippe met Dejan on his very first day as an intern at Fenway & Sons, back when his tie had been too tight and when a blazer felt different and stiff around his shoulders and Dejan had been there poking his head over their cubicle divider asking “hey, do you have a pen?”

That was it. That had been the end. From that moment, Philippe had been a goner.

That had been two months ago.

Philippe hadn’t had a crush like it since the seventh grade- even that had been nothing like the one on his colleague; with the cheekbones sculpted high in to his face, strong symmetrical lines only emphasised when he frowned, and forming (cute) glowing cheeks rounded in to perfect chubs when he smiled. His dark mop of hair was forever splayed with some vague indication that he’d tried to get it to point into a crest at the front. So it was easy to tell when Dejan had been running late, because his hair would flop down slightly in a single ringlet down over his forehead- which he would then spend the whole morning pushing out of the way as he scowled- and these were Philippe’s favourite days.

But it wasn’t just that. Dejan walked with a straight back and a lifted chin, with his shoulders solid and he had an easy smile with straight, white teeth. Philippe loved how natural it was, like he smiled faster than he thought. Unconsciously, you liked Dejan; just as unconsciously, you’d trust Dejan with your kitten and life savings.

“I dunno,” Raheem would complain over their sleepy, half-coordinated attempts to be chill adults and pick up capped lattes during their morning commute (as cool graduates they had decided to save the _Cap’n Crunch_ for weekends). “I don’t see it. He’s alright. That thing he did with the water dispenser was pretty funny though.”

Philippe had considered not talking to him for the rest of their subway ride down to work. Alright? Just _alright_? Had Raheem not seen that secret smile? Had there ever been such a divine, angelic human to grace the earth?

“You’re just saying that,” Raheem would always cave and go for a double chocolate muffin with his latte, “because you’re twitterpated and didn’t get laid enough in college.”

Nonetheless, it had only endured, and strengthened and became more beautiful the more it mulled around inside Philippe. Like a fine wine.

 “You mean,” Raheem had corrected through mouthfuls of muffin, “more like vinegar than fine wine, if you ask me. Whatever. You two would look cute together.”

That idea had only made it all the worse.

Dejan learned his name in the third week. Philippe had been running back and forth from the photocopier one morning- because Mr Touré had been very insistent that he needed _four_ copies _recto-verso_ of their client’s entire file in size 12 single-spaced font at nine a.m. but by nine-fifteen he had changed his mind and suddenly needed six - when someone had opened a window and the air current, that could only hit in when you worked on the seventeenth floor of a building in the wind tunnel that was Manhattan’s financial district, had sent his perfectly organised and colour-coded pages spinning and swirling around the office.

Everyone fell to their knees to help, even Simon who was still talking smoothly into his Bluetooth earpiece like he was at his desk and instead of crawling around on the floor; gathering bunches of pages into their arms and hurriedly relaying them down to Philippe. Philippe had been too absorbed in re-fucking-organising-seven-hundred-fucking-pages-oh-my-god-his _-life_ when he’d looked up and Dejan had been right beside him on the carpet.

“If Touré doesn’t get these in the next ten minutes it’s both our asses that’ll get thrown out the window,” he explained, grinning. His shirt was undone two buttons at the top and Philippe could see a smattering of curly dark hairs just at the v. They looked soft and Philippe sudden had visions of twirling them around his fingers.

Philippe, suddenly mute, with trembly hands had somehow succeeded in actually gathering every page in order and everyone had already resumed work like nothing had happened; so it was left to Dejan to help him to his feet. Philippe wanted to tattoo the imprint of his fingers on the inside of his elbow.

“Thanks,” he’d croaked.

“It was nothing,” and then he hesitated.

“Philippe.”

“Yeah. Cool. It was nothing, Phil,” he’d said with another wink, patting him on the head as he’d turned back to his desk.

“…But you _hate_ it when people call you ‘Phil’.”

“Shut _up_ , Raheem.”

Four days later, one of those mornings when the clock seemed to work at half the rate it normally did, Dejan had stood up for lunch, stretched- Philippe had watched the arch of his back and the twist of his arms as he did, as usual- when Dejan had turned suddenly and caught him.

Philippe had been thinking about the day he would bring Dejan home and introduce him to his parents, and whether or not Dejan would like his mother’s cooking. It wasn’t until Dejan cocked his head at him that Philippe realised how intensely he’d be concentrating, and realised it far, far too late. His face burned and he looked down at his computer quickly, not reading the email he then opened in front of him.

“Hey, Phil?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dejan lean over the panel dividing their desks.

“Yeah,” Philippe replied, not looking up, but _really_ wanting to.

“I’m going to Joe’s on my way back from lunch,” he said. “If you want anything.”

Philippe said- squawked- a “no, thanks,” back before he’d even realised it.

He’d wanted to hide under his desk for the rest of the day.

And so it continued. The next time, Philippe had squeaked for a chocolate muffin (Raheem’s tactical suggestion). After that, about once a week, Dejan would poke his head over Philippe’s desk and say, “chocolate muffin?” before he left for lunch.

“Which is worse?” Raheem had asked drily. “Chocolate Muffin or Phil? Look. He calls Lazar ‘Skittles’ for a reason. I’m just saying. Come back to me when he actually starts asking how you are, or something.”

And then, two days ago:

“Chocolate muffin?”

“Yeah,” Philippe wheezed, “sure. Thanks.”

“And hey,” Philippe froze, and looked up at grinning Dejan, eyes wide. “You going to Dan’s drinks tomorrow night, or what?”

Everyone was going to Dan’s drinks. You didn’t say no to Dan, who had legendary parties, almost as legendary as his dance-offs.

“Yeah,” Philippe’s reply was more of a shriek. His knuckles gripped his mouse with more force than necessary. “Yeah. I’m going.”

“Cool. Gonna be a blast,” Dejan winked at him before he left.

It had taken him ten whole minutes to come down from that high. Several included hyperventilating in the bathroom.

“Did you see? _Did you_ see? He wants me to be there!”

“Er, look, I dunno,” Raheem had called under the toilet stall door. “Everyone goes when Dan hosts drinks, Philippe.”

“He wanted to know if I was going! He wants me to be there! What do I _do_ now? Should I say something to him when he gets back? What do I _wear_? How do you think- I can’t- _this is_!”

“For the love of _God_ …”

As far as what Philippe should wear was concerned, because Philippe either did hoodies or full-on office attire, Alberto had been surprisingly insightful.

“You wanna look cool, yano?” He picked through Philippe’s pretty minimal closet. “You own a pair of super skinnies, mate?” He held aloft a black pair of jeans.

Philippe wrinkled his nose. “I hate them. If I wear them for too long, I can’t feel my ankles.”

“Nah, bro,” Alberto’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “You want him to notice you? Like, as more than just Chocolate Muffin from the Next Desk Over? You _have_ to wear these.”

Alberto had bashed him for not having anything reasonable to go with them apart from some holey tees and plaid, so they’d opted for one of Philippe’s white work shirts- rolled up to his elbow and secured in cuffs, J-Crew style. He’d then tucked Philippe in a taxi, because it was a special occasion, and Philippe should ride in style.

“If you’re home before midnight I’ll kill you, Cinderella!” he’d called, as the cab sped away and Philippe laughed like a maniac.

So, now that Philippe looked more like a total dude and less like a hapless intern, he’d been pretty disappointed to arrive at Dan’s party to find that Dejan didn’t come over a greet him on sight.

So down went beer number one.

Number two went down while they’d watched Jordan Wii tennis Raheem out of the room.

Philippe started his third, and decided he should go over and talk to Dejan now.

Sadly, that’s when things started to get hazy.

“Phil!” Dejan had exclaimed, slapping him on the back. “Didn’t see you there?”

Instead of shrieking, Philippe had had enough composure to take a swing from the bottle and to not declare his love for him on the spot.

Dejan had herded him in to the circle of conversation and Philippe hadn’t listened but used the proximity to let his leg lean in to him, like every flirting site he’d researched had suggested.

People who weren’t Dejan asked him what he thought of the shrinking Ukrainian economy (??), if he thought this was the Yankees’ year (he cared little for that strange batting sport) and if he would like another beer (yes), but none of these people were Dejan, who hadn’t felt inclined to ask him anything, so Philippe in a petulant drunken huff had toed at Dejan’s shoe to let him know he was leaving and stomped back across the room to Raheem.

“Whoa,” Raheem lifted the beer from his hands, “slow _down_!”

“Nope,” Philippe had said gravely, “let’s do shots.”

Bad idea.

By his fourth cup of vodka-and-something, Philippe was somewhere between heartbroken and totally over it, changing his mind every couple of seconds.

“I should eat something,” he mused, spread out on the couch with his head in Fabio’s lap.

“You should really go home,” Fabio had laughed, patting his cheek a little too hard. Philippe realised later that it had been to bring him back to life rather than out of affection.

This was not his finest moment. At least Raheem had pledged to keep up, and had finished off worse, being actually asleep.

“Stay here, I’ll go get you something.” Fabio laid Philippe’s head down on the couch and got up.

Then Philippe saw Dejan out on the balcony through the sliding glass doors, and decided suddenly that he smoked.

He got to his feet, was quite proud of the composure he’d managed to maintain to get outside, ignoring how much he’d had to lean to the door to slide it open, though.

“Phil!” The second time Dejan had addressed him that night.

“Can I have one?” Philippe asked boldly, pointing at his cigarette packet.

Dejan laughed; beautiful and disbelieving. “Sure, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Philippe said sourly, taking it between two fingers like he’d seen on TV. He held it out to meet Dejan’s lighter. “I’m twenty-two.”

“You’re a kid.” Dejan paused; looking down at Philippe’s outstretched hand suspiciously. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?”

“Because when you light up,” Dejan said slowly, “you have to put it in to your mouth and suck the air through. And you’re not doing that.”

Everything was hazy and Dejan had just said the word “suck”. “Oh.”

Dejan smiled as he breathed smoke out in to the night. “Don’t do it. It’s bad for you.”

Philippe, feeling like an idiot, staggered sideways in to the door. “Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling shame like nothing he had ever felt in his life, apart from his love for Dejan. _He’s looking after me_ , he realised. And the angles of his face looked so good in the half light.

Dejan reached out one arm and slowly teased his cigarette back from Philippe’s hand. He was so close Philippe couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop grinning, because _perfect human_.

“Do you need someone to call you a cab?” Dejan asked softly.

“Subway,” Philippe explained, as his voice pitched drunkenly.

“I’ll call you a cab,” Dejan promised. “Come on.”

“No,” the seriousness of Philippe’s protest was marred by a hiccup. “I want to stay and… talk to _you_.”

Dejan was smiling as he exhaled and the edges of his face were blurry so Philippe rubbed at his eyes. “Do you, now?”

“Hmmmmm.” Dejan was smiling at Philippe smiling, and Philippe just couldn’t stop smiling.

Philippe was walking back through Dan’s living room next. Raheem was drooling on the couch, and as Philippe turned his head to look it nearly rolled off his neck.

“Easy,” Dejan murmured, and Philippe was vaguely aware of being righted.

“I’m _not_ drunk,” Philippe promised, hands rounding around Dejan’s upper arm.

“I can see that.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” Philippe pitched into his chest.

“I’m not laughing at you.” Then, “I’m going to make sure he gets home,” but not to Philippe, to someone that wasn’t Philippe. His arm was tight around his back, fingers spread across one of his shoulders.

“Make sure to call his roommate before you put him in a cab,” Dan’s voice warned. “He’ll need help at the other end.”

Philippe’s memory of the interior of the elevator was dim, because he was pressed to Dejan’s jacket. Dejan’s jacket didn’t smell very nice. It smelled kind of like an old ashtray.

The outside air was so cold it knocked him several paces back.

“I need to eat,” he realised, the slurpy feeling of his stomach indicating that he would have a horrible day tomorrow otherwise. “Like. I need to eat now.”

Dejan frowned. “What?”

“I need,” Philippe’s brain restarted, “a burger.”

Dejan laughed. He pressed his hand to the small of Philippe’s back. “Cab,” he urged, herding Philippe in to the back of one before Philippe had even noticed that it had been hailed.

“Burger,” Philippe protested, tipping drunkenly into the opposite door.

“I’m making sure you get home,” Dejan pointed out. “What’s your address?”

“Tell me about _you_ ,” Philippe purred, reaching out one hand to touch at Dejan’s knee.

Dejan paused, looked at Philippe’s hand on his leg, looked at Philippe, blinked; and then leaned in and kissed him and Philippe forgot his name.

The kiss skipped that cute, romantic first-kiss stage and went straight to full-on making out. Dejan pulled Philippe on to his lap, Philippe reached for his hair.

“Yours or mine?” He asked, suddenly against Philippe’s neck.

This was all escalating a bit too fast for Philippe to process, but that was exactly what he’d wanted forever and ever. He nodded mutely.

Dejan called instructions to the cab driver and jiggled Philippe on his knee to pull the door over after him.

That’s when Philippe’s brain thought to interrupt.

“I don’t,” he mumbled into Dejan’s collar, “want you to think I’m easy.”

“I don’t think you’re easy.” One of Dejan’s hands pushed Philippe’s hair from his forehead. “I promise. I won’t make you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I like you,” Philippe half-sobbed.

“Okay,” Dejan said, and they continued to kiss. At one point Philippe thought he heard the cab driver cackle, but he could have imagined it. Hands ran all over his body, and Philippe pulled at his hair under his hands- it wasn’t as soft as it looked, it felt kind of chalky, like Dejan didn’t use conditioner.

At one point Philippe opened his eyes, but he could only see lights flashing outside his window and it made him dizzy so he quickly closed them again. He was grateful for Alberto’s suggestion on the jeans, because Dejan’s hands were glued to them.

Philippe remembered thinking that he couldn’t wait to tell Alberto.

Dejan lived in a tall, glassy tower block. Outside, it smelled like the sea, and inside it smelled like bleach. The reception floor was shiny. Dejan clasped his hands through Philippe’s as he lead him across the foyer. Philippe felt his palms grow sticker as they stood silent and side-by-side in the elevator.

He wanted to kiss him again. He didn’t know how to go about it.

“I’m sorry,” Dejan said as he led him in to his apartment, “it’s a mess.” It wasn’t. It looked expensive and clean and modern, with one wall a giant window to the glintzy bridges between them and the city in the distance. “That’s the kitchen,” he pointed to his kitchenette, “and the living room,” he pointed to a couch, “bedroom’s through there, uh.” He rubbed down the back of his neck with the palm of his other hand. Then he let it scoop down and around Philippe’s jaw, and pull him up to him again. He let go almost instantly and fiddled with the stiff buttons of Philippe’s shirt.

 _We are going to have sex_ , Philippe realised finally. He reached for the waist of Dejan’s jeans; slid the button through the hole, his hands didn’t even have time to shake at the speed he pulled down the zipper. He thrust his hands behind the cotton of Dejan’s underwear, curled his hand around its contents.

Dejan grunted and pulled Philippe’s body towards him, kissing deep in to his neck.

Philippe’s hips jerked helplessly against Dejan’s. The pants were tight; there wasn’t much he could do with the hand that was in them.

Dejan pushed him, and he let go. Philippe took several steps back. Dejan moved past him, hand wrapping around his waist, dragging Philippe to the couch. When Philippe lay back, Dejan pushed the sleeves of his shirt down his arms. Philippe wriggled his hands out past the tight cuffs as Dejan tugged at his hopelessly tight jeans.

While Dejan ground against him Philippe reflected briefly on the fact that he wasn’t a very good kisser. He only seemed to use half of his mouth. So he pulled his away.

Dejan kissed at his neck, moving his hips in to Philippe’s. Philippe frowned at the ceiling.

Well, he’d probably had too much to drink. But. He sort of always had imagined that even Dejan touching him would be enough? And yet here they were dry humping on his couch and yet Philippe just… wasn’t feeling it?

 _No_ , _no_. He told himself. _Feel it. I mean you are definitely going to have hickeys from this. Hickeys_ Dejan Lovren _gave you._

Actually it was kind of awkward. They both still had underpants on, and it was awkward.

 _Uh_ , Philippe realised. _I’m going to have to see him on Monday. Sit across from him on Monday. And he has just taken my jeans off._

Dejan was still working on his neck. When he bucked in to Philippe’s hips he made a moany noise in his ear.

Philippe had watched porn. Philippe knew how this worked. So he made the moany noises too.

So clearly his acting skills needed work, because Dejan sat up.

“This isn’t working for you, is it?” he said, swinging his legs from around Philippe and placing his feet on the floor.

“Um,” Philippe was suddenly aware that he was only wearing his boxers. But he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t relieved. “You too?”

Dejan ran his hands down his face. “Do you want to…?”

“No. It’s fine.” _I kind of just want to go home now._

Philippe’s head was spinning. He let his head rest back on to one of the plushy cushions. He still felt kind of ashamed. Heat grew on his chest.

This was really not how things were meant to be going.

Dejan lifted his head and looked straight ahead out the window. Philippe tried to follow his gaze, but his eyesight kept blurring and the rapidly shifting lights weren’t slow to make him feel sea sick. He turned his head in to the side of the couch, trying to hide his nose in the fabric.

He felt Dejan stand up and used the opportunity to roll the whole way over and press in to the back of the couch. Holding his breath seemed to steady him somewhat.

He heard Dejan cough and he reluctantly turned his head around. Dejan looked sheepish and held out a glass of water, scratching the back of his head. He was still wearing most of his clothes, and Philippe now felt stupid and bare.

He frowned. “Thanks?” he said, taking it from him and just about managing to curl up to sit.

Dejan patted the inside of Philippe’s thigh. _Rude_ , Philippe thought. _I didn’t say you could do that_.

“Sorry,” Dejan said eventually.

Philippe took a mouthful of water. His stomach was too full of liquid already. What he needed was soakage. At this stage he would have given his left arm for the cheesiest, greasiest burger in Manhattan.

“This has never happened to me before,” Dejan said in to the silence.

Philippe knew it wasn’t him. Philippe knew it was the alcohol. But he couldn’t help feeling, just a bit, like this was his fault. That Dejan hadn’t liked him enough to get off on it.

So, no. Apology not accepted.

“Uh,” he blinked, “we aren’t in the city any more, are we?”

Dejan shook his head. Philippe drained his glass.

“I, uh,” Philippe started after he’d swallowed. “How do I get back in to it?” Despite the fact that he was still, very, definitely drunk- the edges of his world suddenly felt sharper.

Dejan looked at him with astonishment. “You are not getting the M back there smashed.”

“No, s’fine.” Brilliant. The perfect moment for his words to slur. So convincing, Coutinho. “I’ll be fine.”

Dejan’s hand rubbed against the inside of his thigh again. “Look. When it’s bright, okay? You can stay here until then. I brought you out here.”

Should Philippe be grateful? If Dejan really felt that bad about it he could have at least offered to pay for his cab home. If he had to take the M, then he was in either in Queens or Brooklyn; and that was going to be one pricey trip in a taxi. Philippe didn’t even feel bad about it.

“Okay,” he agreed finally. He had spent a couple of seconds trying to cobble together reason in his brain; except his brain was no longer functioning like a brain. Like a mashed potato, maybe; but not a brain.

“I’ll fill this up for you again,” he heard Dejan offer, as he buried his head back into the starchy, stifling back of the couch.

Philippe must have fallen asleep. Because when he rolled over, Dejan was gone; and the sky outside the window was now more of a grey than an inky black.

He blinked. Little by little, inch by inch; the memory of the night (hours?) before came back to him. And with his memories came _pain_. His stomach churned and ached, his throat twisted inside the skin of his neck. Nausea split his lungs.

And then he completed his roll: off the edge of the couch, and on to the floor.

He yelped and moaned as his elbow hit sharply off the fake, fake wood. He twisted on to his stomach; his jeans were still wrapped around one of his ankles. He felt full of air and full of humiliation.

Also, like absolute shit. Something was corroding the inner walls of his stomach. The inside of his skull felt tender. Every single nerve ending was switched on to high capacity- especially, it seemed; the ones in his nose: now hyper aware of the old carpet smell of the rug and vague cleaning product on the hard surface.

The ends of his fingers were too aware of every miniscule dirt grain on the floor when he used them to lift him back up. And so he sat, sinking into the cushions, staring but not staring at the lightening gradients of grey that the sky was demonstrating.

“I feel like a toilet,” a voice said from the other side of the room.

Philippe’s head felt too heavy for his neck, but somehow he managed to turn it.

Dejan stood in to the door that he had said led to his room, wearing a t-shirt and loose stripy boxers and rubbing his face. This was a sight Philippe had only seen in his dreams; but right now he frowned at how liney his face was, like he had too much skin on it.

Philippe thought of their recent proximity, and his he felt the area around his collar begin to roast.

“Do you have anything to eat?” he croaked.

Dejan stared at him blankly for several seconds. “Uh… sure?”

He wandered gingerly over to the kitchen counter and started searching through the cupboard, all the while one hand wound tight in to the hair at the back of his head.

Philippe watched. Philippe’s stomach swished. Philippe stood up, tugged his trousers up his thighs and padded gingerly after him.

Ugh. Every step felt stupidly difficult.

Dejan’s mouth twisted, embarrassed. “Biscuit?” he held out the packet.

Tentatively, Philippe took it from him. He searched inside it with one hand and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie.

He stared at it. “Is that all you have?”

Dejan shrugged, biting in to his.

The more Philippe examined the cookie in his hand, the more he definitely did not want to eat it. The thought of swallowing scratchy, artificial dough already made his throat tight and he could smell too-sweet chocolate, even this far from his nose.

“Actually,” he placed it back in the packet, “I’m, uh, gonna go?”

Dejan blinked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It totally isn’t the middle of the night,” Philippe pointed at the window. “Look. Sunrise.” Well, _sunrise_ was probably pushing it. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me this early in the morning.”

Oh wow, that whiff of chocolate hadn’t done any good at all. Philippe reached out and gripped the counter, suddenly dizzy.

“Are you sure?” Dejan was eating his second biscuit. Philippe looked away, lest he gag at the sight.

“Yeah, uh, how do I get…?” Doing up his belt seemed to take a frustratingly long time.

“Hmmm,” Dejan munched, and Philippe’s stomach started to cartwheel, “once you leave the building, you’ll see the bridge. Follow the road to the left and when you reached the end, take the right and keep going straight to get to Broadway. The trains are pretty frequent.”

 _Why aren’t you dying?_ Philippe felt like asking. Instead he nodded his thanks and made his way back over to the couch to fish for his shirt in between the couch cushions. Eventually, he found it on the floor.

When he pulled on his coat, he paused; mounting mental discomfort not at all helping with the physical he was also experiencing. “Thanks?”

Dejan nodded from still inside the counter. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

Philippe attempted to flee as fast as he could; but he didn’t get far. When the elevator started to descend, it was as though his stomach didn’t get the memo and floated up Philippe’s internal cavity, floated up and squeezed his lungs, seemed to be trying to make its way back up the inside of-

Oh God.

Philippe clapped his hand to his mouth. He swallowed, but just about. He buried his face in to his elbow and when the doors dinged open he broke in to a run, out the front door, around the corner- he breathed in and the _smells_ : so many horrible, overwhelming smells of sea and shit and fumes. The street lights were still lit and blinded him. All of his thoughts were leaking from some fissure in his head.

Philippe staggered. Philippe slipped. Philippe crawled. Philippe threw up all over the dim side walk.

Seagulls squawked in rings above his head; a dirtier, less lion-orientated play on Serengeti vultures.

Philippe pressed his head to the pavement. It was cold and moist against his forehead.

“Swallow me,” he pleaded at it.

* * *

 

**[Step 3: Work out if you dare, but avoid work if you can]**

“Honestly,” Emre chewed his bottom lip. “This Lovren guy? Sounds like a douche to me.”

Philippe stared down into the take-away cake box that now held the remainder of his (cold) pancake. He started doodling in the syrup with the edge of his fork, settling on his initials in elaborate cursive because he didn’t have the mental strength to be more original.

Philippe’s story had brought them from the diner down several blocks to this bench on the promenade of the vast East River Park. Philippe had finished half of his juice and several more mouthfuls of pancake, so he’d made it without any threat of passing out. However, this was not to say that he still didn’t feel like turd.

“I think,” Philippe said, “I mean; I used to think that it was called the Walk of Shame because you had to get the subway smelling all musty and looking like you clearly hadn’t been home. And so, like; all these prudish, suit-ish types would be judging you on their way to church or whatever.”

“But?” Emre had his sunglasses back on. It was a more reasonable hour now- the sun had risen, but thankfully its ugly head was, for the time being, tucked behind some dreary looking clouds. This did not change the fact that it was still a totally stupid hour to be wearing sunglasses.

“I’m pretty sure,” Philippe continued, squinting back at him sprawled over an indecently large part of the bench, “that it refers to the fact that while you’re making the trip home you realise what a total idiot you are.”

For someone who had claimed to have no interest in Philippe’s story at all, Emre had been a very attentive audience; wincing and tutting in all the right places. Philippe wasn’t quite ready to admit that he was enjoying his company, but it was nice to have something calming and solid in the upside-downness that now appeared to be his life. And it seemed that Emre was very calming and solid.

And, like, Philippe _had_ got a free pancake out of it.

The bridge they had crossed earlier that morning arched away from them in the middle-distance; metallic and blue in the morning light, too far away to hear the tinny screech of the trains as they trundled across it. And just below it on the opposite bank Philippe could see a tall, shimmering apartment block on the river’s edge and realised why it looked familiar and thought _Dejan_.

It just. Last night wasn’t meant to go that way.

“I feel _used_ ,” he said bitterly when Emre didn’t comment. He manoeuvred more pancake on to his plastic picnic fork. It still didn’t have a taste, and Philippe was still far from hungry, but it did seem to have helped.

“That’s the thing,” Emre started, his voice even. Philippe had the distinct impression he was about to get insulted. “It’s not romantic. It’s rarely romantic. In the movies, maybe. Otherwise it’s just to get your bit and go home.”

 _There we go_. _Apparently I’m a naïve sap_ , Philippe thought. Although he didn’t have a great counter argument. Raheem, for example, would be totally on board with that description of him.

It wasn’t that Philippe hadn’t lived dorm parties up until very recently. Philippe did know what a hook-up was, and definitely knew how awkward they got if you were wasted. But dorm parties were safe enough for that. Anything that happened at dorm parties tended to stay inside the dorm.  

“I have to see him at work tomorrow. I have to see him every day until my internship finishes.” Philippe pulled his hood up over his head, the wind was whistling through his ears. The soft fluffy trim was relaxingly ticklish against his cheek, and it suddenly felt good to be able to tuck his head defensively in something. “My internship doesn’t finish for another four months.”

“It’s just,” Emre said, “your hangover talking. Trust me. It’s not that bad.”

“How can you say that?” Philippe groaned. “My life is over.” He’d have to look at Dejan every day and just see that face he’d made.

 _This isn’t doing anything for you either_ , _is it_?

Wow. Way to deflate someone to a truly insignificant size. Way to be crushed by your crush.

Philippe loved his internship. As much as he’d been able to drag himself from bed at illogical hours of the morning and travel the entire way across the city purely at the prospect of drooling over the guy in the next cubicle, Philippe loved his work. He didn’t want to suddenly not look forward to it because of one, super-cringey, almost-sexual encounter.

“Everybody does stupid things when they’re drunk,” Emre said, as though he’d been following Philippe’s thoughts. “Everybody gets over it.”

“Excellent,” Philippe snorted. “Great. So comforting.”

Emre actually had the indecency to smile as he looked at his watch.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Did the pancakes help?”

 _Come back to me when he actually asks how you are_ , _or something_ , Raheem’s voice said annoyingly in his head.

“Yeah.” For all he’d eaten of them. “They did.” He paused. “I still feel like my stomach doesn’t belong to me, but they did help.”

It wasn’t that his internal cavity no longer felt like it was easing up the inside of his oesophagus, and it wasn’t that he was suddenly back to being accustomed to all those gross city smells. But he did sort of feel human again, he _had_ walked here and, for the mean time, didn’t feel like he wanted to throw up.

Emre smiled at him now; sort of glad, rather smug. “See? I told you. Seven steps.”

Philippe bit his lip. He’d nearly laughed, which was a feat. Laughing was the last thing he felt like doing.

“How?” he asked, “I haven’t even been following them?” He’d maybe managed a quarter of this alleged first step and politely declined the second.

“There’s still a few left,” and Philippe wished he didn’t sound like he enjoyed the prospect.

 _No_ , Philippe thought about saying. _I don’t even know what they_ are.

“Out of interest,” he said instead, “how will I know when I’m cured? Scientifically speaking.”

“Whenever you get your appetite back is usually a good indicator.” With a massive hand Emre smoothed several long strands of hair back from his forehead.

 _So_ , _never_. Philippe didn’t think he’d ever feel hungry again.

“You did clear something up for me, though,” Emre scratched at his chin and looked down sideways at Philippe. Or maybe elsewhere, this inability to tell where he was looking due to some need to look cool and block out sunlight was beginning to get frustrating. _Not least_ , Philippe thought, _because I now know what his eyes are like_. “Your neck.”

Philippe blinked. He had been searching through eye adjectives and was trying to think of something with more masculine emphasis than _gentle_ and _pretty_. “What?”

Emre traced up and down his own with two fingers. “Hickeys.” He explained.

Philippe’s hands flew up to collar. “What?” he croaked again. His fingers were freezing, and now his neck felt alarmingly warm. As did his cheeks, his forehead and the base of his spine. This time it wasn’t from illness.

“I thought maybe you’d been drawing on yourself,” Emre said lightly.

Philippe let go of his neck and pulled his hood closed over his face. “Kill me.”

“It’s winter. You have an excuse to wear a scarf all day. For now, though,” something was tugging Philippe’s hood, and he let go as it was pulled down; the chilly breeze hitting his neck and cooling it. Emre had turned on the bench and with two hands unfolded the stiff collar of Philippe’s shirt so that the scratchy corners tickled his jaw. “There,” he said, his lips drawing out from concentration and in to that kind/smug hybrid smile. “Fixed.”

Philippe was burning white-hot like a furnace. Emre’s hands were somehow warmer.

They were still lingering when Emre looked up and over his head, and his grin spread, and for the first time Philippe saw his teeth. It was startling how it transformed his face because suddenly there was this element of pure earnestness to him in his delight when his lips spread so far they dwarfed the rest of his features.

 _You met him like three seconds ago_ , Philippe warned himself.

Emre pulled his sunglasses off, and his eyes were crinkly to match. “Here comes Step Three,” he said through his grin.

Philippe blinked, confused. Then he turned around.

Walking towards them was easily the breeziest human being Philippe had ever seen. He was slightly built and slouched in track gear that looked easily two sizes too big, his shoulders were completely slack and his hands thrust loosely into the pockets of his pants, a football tucked under one arm. As though he was indeed walking constantly into an artful gust of wind, he seemed to lean back as he took long loping strides towards them and his hair looked impossibly soft and was fluffed up like it was being blown back from his head in large chunks. His smile when he saw Emre was open and easy and honest and like no other expression was possible on his face, and he had matching sculpted facial fuzz, but browner; making the edges seem softer.

“Ah,” he said as he came to a stop in front of them, “I see you’ve picked up a stray.” He grinned heartily at Philippe like this prospect delighted him, like Philippe was indeed some sort of rescue home puppy. He pulled one hand from his pocket and held it out to him. “Adam,” he explained, like Philippe with his ruined neck and impossible hair and probably looking like he’d been recently exhumed didn’t perturb him in the slightest.

Philippe stuck his fork in to the pancake and then took the offered salutation when he clasped back. “Philippe,” he said.

He couldn’t explain it, but he liked this guy already: he looked like the sort of person who helped old ladies cross the street, was super nice to people in customer service, apologised for things that weren’t his fault and knitted socks for orphans.

And he played football. He already had Philippe’s vote.

“Alright!” Adam said gleefully, and when Philippe let go he offered a bro-shake to Emre beside him, and they both grasped in to it enthusiastically like they hadn’t seen each other for years. “So we’ve got a goalie today, huh?”

“Goalie what?” Philippe asked. Adam had loped away again, something impish in the grin he threw Philippe over his shoulder; and Emre got up to follow. Philippe had been sitting too long, and wasn’t sure if he was able to stand again; his legs had quite forgotten how to function.

Emre somehow knew and his hands fastened around the inside of his elbow again, and he eased him to his feet.

Philippe had in no way considered himself cured just yet; but as all the blood rushed straight down from his head he had to close his eyes for balance. He was immensely glad that someone was holding on to him. He was tugging the edge of Emre’s jacket again for stability before he’d realised. “Um. How is he going to fix my hangover?”

“Adam is my friend,” Emre explained as though it wasn’t already immediately obvious.

“Great,” Philippe murmured.

Emre’s lips had fallen into a smirk as Adam fell back in to step with them, a legit fireball of energy. “On Sundays we play football.”

“And?”

“Did someone say hangover cure?” Adam interrupted easily; Philippe couldn’t even hold it against him. Then, “the usual?” to Emre.

Emre gave a curt nod. “Step three,” he said to Adam.

“ _Ah_ ,” Adam grimaced and looked down at Philippe like he was a puppy again, “ _sweat_ it out.”

As the passed the edge of the tennis courts two super athletic looking joggers overtook them; with tight, designer sports gear and luminous running shoes. He saw the sweat soaking their necks and arms, and suddenly he felt dizzy at the prospect of perspiration.

He gulped. The inside of his throat tasted like bad caramel. “That doesn’t sound… so great.”

“No,” Adam admitted, winking. “But I don’t imagine it’s going to be any worse than you’re already feeling.” He clasped one hand around Philippe’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

 _I still vote for lying horizontally_ , Philippe thought. “I don’t think I’m a fan of proactive hangover cures,” he replied.

Adam’s head titled back and his chest seemed to open up to the sky when he laughed. “Where did you find him?” he asked Emre.

 “The subway,” Emre said. Adam laughed harder, incredulously: like this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Emre met Philippe’s eyes and smiled at him; like suddenly they had an in-joke to share. Philippe sucked at his teeth.

“Look,” he said in a low voice. “Like. Thanks for the food and all, but maybe I should go. Just tell me how to feel better and I’ll get my own cab.” Dizziness swept over him suddenly and he paused, trying not to let it show. If he had to get a cab, he’d probably have to ask them to pull over several times. And to the other side of the city? No way did he have the spare change for that. He’d probably only get a cab to the nearest subway.

Emre probably took his pause as all he had to say on the matter.

“It’s not like I’m making you stay,” he murmured, brows drawing together in concern.

Philippe hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam had broken in to a trot towards the nearest expanse of grass. Philippe was very aware of Emre’s body heat, the hand under his arm; that his eyes weren’t black anymore but shiny and caramel like that pancake syrup, that weird look of unnecessary (well… in Philippe’s opinion) but intense concern that emanated from his eyes.

Philippe stayed. But the cake box went in to the first trash can they passed.

In the large expanse of moist grass behind the promenade, Adam unzipped his hoodie and dropped it on the lawn, took several paces from it and pointed, and Emre obligingly fished in his pocket for his hat.

“Rules,” Adam explained to Philippe. “One: newbie’s the goalie.”

Emre had let go of Philippe by now, so he sank thankfully to the ground between the two markers. The dew soaked through his jeans, but he didn’t give a single hoot.

“Two: its first to five,” Adam rolled the football from under his arm across to his chest so he could list them off with his fingers. “Three: loser goes in goals, four: Emre is not allowed to diving tackle.” He gave the man in question an accusatory stare, but Emre, if anything, looked downright pleased with his status. “Any questions?”

Philippe shook his head. It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. He’d gone from non-sex with the love of his life to history’s most traumatic train ride to very bad pancakes and now, it seemed: a Sunday soccer tournament.

 _How did I get here?_ He wondered.

He crossed his legs in the middle of the goal line and pulled his hood back up, tucking his hands under his arms for warmth to compensate for his freezing soggy jeans.

_I could get pneumonia._

_I don’t care._

Something yanked at the top of his hood and he looked up.

“You okay?” Emre asked.

“No,” Philippe replied, hoarsely.

Emre tugged off his denim jacket again- _it’s November_ , Philippe thought with horror- and let it drop around Philippe’s shoulders. It was heavy and smelled like an extinguished fireplace, adding an extra layer of insulation to Philippe’s shoulders. “Mind these,” he said, folding his sunglasses and holding them out to him.

Philippe opened them again and stuck them resolutely on his nose, dimming the colour saturation of his universe. “Don’t ask for them back.”

Emre gave him that in-joke smile again, and then sharply jerked Philippe’s hood down over his eyes, in what he probably thought was hilariously funny way.

The game began.

Philippe’s concentration span was not as its normal level; given he still only felt about half-human. But even as a whole-corpse he in all likelihood would have been able to follow football. He had expected that a Sunday kick-about between friends would be friendly and easy affair, but as it progressed he leaned back on his hands and pulled down his hood and his brain began to tick; football the grease to his rusty gears.

Adam was small and swift, his feet were quick and the ball slid along easily with them. That, Philippe could have predicted. He wasn’t afraid of Emre though, and took him on as their game devolved slowly in to a possession tussle several feet in front of goal.

It was Emre that was the big surprise. Philippe was used to bigger set players from when he’d played in school: bar the odd elbow to the face, they tired easy and were cumbersome and their legs were way longer and took a while to close, making them the perfect victims for nutmegs.

Emre was not cumbersome. Large, yes; and given how often he swiped at Adam’s ankles, he’d probably dished out the odd revenge elbow in his time. Apart from that, he was as just as quick and skilful as someone half his size.

Philippe would even go as far to consider it graceful.

The first goal was Emre’s, and Philippe leaned out of its path when it rolled across the goal line.

“Dude!” Adam cried, from the ground. He wrung his hands, his voice pitching with helpless laughter. “Goal _keeper_.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Emre cut across him, the roguish grin now a permanent fixture on his features. “You’re doing fantastic.”

Philippe didn’t quite laugh at that, but for the first time he felt the beginnings of a smile ghost his lips. A superlative? From _Emre_?

“One-nil,” he confirmed, and Emre winked at him.

In the end, Adam; who seemed to have more proficiency as a centre-forward, capitalised on a fatal error of being left in too much space by Emre for his fifth; who could only watch as it soared over his head and rolled towards the trees.

“Losers seekers!”

Emre looked to Philippe for help, but Philippe shrugged. He was enjoying the power of an unreadable expression that the shades gave him. It was probably about time that he adapted to this permanent sulk that his recovering liver had stuck him in.

Emre set off to retrieve the ball, breaking in to a jog when he passed Philippe, who, too late; realised he had been watching how the bunched muscles of his arms were emphasised by the cut-off of his sleeve and that the front of his hair bounced as he ran in slow motion. He felt Adam flop down beside him.

“Alright?” he asked cheerily, out of breath. He stretched one leg and nudged at Philippe’s calf with the toe of one scuffed trainer.

Sheepishly, Philippe pulled off the glasses. _I’m deprived._ He told himself. _That’s why I was staring. That’s all. Nothing personal._

“Yeah,” he said. Truth, the game had given him a welcome distraction. He no longer felt quite so seasick. Maybe the hangover really was passing.

“You’re next, you know,” Adam warned happily, wiping his forehead clear with his palm. “Hmmm,” he rubbed at the inside of one his thighs with a concerned grimace. “Ow. I’d be sitting it out even if I hadn’t won I think.” He coughed. He looked at Philippe expectantly, as though he thought Philippe might like to comment now.

“Um,” Philippe started; his brain slow off the starting block.

Adam’s easy smile was back. “Are you any good?”

Philippe had been raised well. Philippe, usually, was polite. _I’m alright_ , he’d say. _No_ , _no- I got lucky._

“I’m excellent,” he declared.

“Good, I can’t wait to see him get beaten twice in the same morning,” Adam grinned in Emre’s direction. Then, “no really, where did he find you?”

“No, really,” Philippe said, “the subway. I, er, was sick.”He practically chewed through his bottom lip before adding; “and he helped me.”

“Hmph,” Adam huffed. “I bet he did.” He gave Philippe a strange look that Philippe couldn’t read. “So,” he called over Philippe’s head, louder suddenly and offensive to Philippe’s currently tender ears. “I heard you couldn’t help the Good Samaritan thing again, could you?”

Emre dropped down beside Philippe, making him jump a second time in quick succession.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said calmly, tossing the ball in Adam’s direction.

“You do this a lot?” Philippe asked him.

Emre leaned back on his hands. He looked sideways at Philippe, lips pursed. “No,” he said.

“ _Yes_ ,” Adam said emphatically. He waggled his finger at Emre, “you’re ridiculous. Elderly people with their shopping; lost children and now hungover students. I can’t take him anywhere,” he explained to Philippe.

So Philippe wasn’t all that special, he was a nice, pet project, charitable case. This weirdly made him feel both better and worse. It wasn’t great being told you weren’t special. But all the same, maybe Emre hadn’t picked him up for his wallet.

“I don’t understand what else I was meant to do?” Emre was still watching Philippe, the light brown streaks in eyes twisting. “What would you have done if I hadn’t helped you?”

It took Philippe a while to realise that the question was being addressed at him.

“Um,” he started, wrapping his arms around his stomach and holding it tight to keep the shame in. “I dunno. I would have sat there for a bit. Got the next one?”

Thinking back, Philippe had no idea how he would have managed. Getting home would have taken _hours_.

Adam was shaking his head. “It’s nothing personal,” he clarified, “he just needs to learn that he’s not solely responsible for everyone’s problems.” He kicked at Emre’s leg.

And Philippe had thought that Adam was the one who knitted the socks for orphans. He may need to rethink that.

“So what do you do Philippe?” Adam changed the subject, as Emre prodded back with his shoe and pulled his legs in towards his chest when Adam swiped back, letting a low chuckle from his throat. “Fuck off, you!”

Emre smiled sideways at Philippe, easily. Philippe thought about his lips again. This was awfully confusing.

“I, erm,” he swallowed, “graduated in September. I intern with an insurance company on Pine Street.”

Adam frowned. “Pine Street?” he asked. He shot a look at Emre. “You think he knows Rickie?”

Emre shrugged.

“A lot of people work on Pine Street,” Philippe offered. He was wracking his brain anyway. _Do I know a Rickie? I don’t think I do…_

“Well, Rickie works in an IT department,” Adam said, frowning, “in… is it… Fenway? Fenway and something?”

“Fenway and Sons?” Philippe asked, stunned.

“That’s it! Know any Rickie Lamberts in their IT department?”

Philippe hesitated. There was definitely a guy he talked to an awful lot in IT, because his printer was the worst in the office and didn’t enjoy early mornings. He didn’t think the guy’s name was Rickie though, more like Mario… thingy…

“I couldn’t tell you,” he admitted. “I do work at Fenway, though.”

Adam looked at him gleefully. “Well that proves it. That seven degrees of separation stuff is _bullshit_ ,” he laughed. “It’s more like one and a half.”

Philippe felt the smile grow on his face before he could stop it, although it caused his stomach to stir uncomfortably, and felt weirdly alien. It felt like too long since he’d smiled.

Next to him, Emre seemed to be getting the hang of it, his chest even shaking slightly with laughter. Philippe jumped when he readjusted himself on his hands beside him, pushing more poorly gelled hair from his face.

Adam tutted. “Your hairstyling isn’t quite on point this morning,” he teased.

“That’s what I get for using Martin’s gel. Martin has no hair,” he explained to Philippe, a little gentler.

 _Martin_? Philippe stared at him blankly.

“Aw, _Emre_ ,” Adam moaned, hiding his face in his hands. “ _Martin?_ Again?”

“Why?” Emre asked, and Philippe had the feeling that this argument played out often between them. Whoever Martin was.

“You could do so much better than being Martin’s booty call,” Adam said, dramatically waving his arms in the air. “He’s such a _twat_. You _know_ he’s a twat.”

Booty call. Right. The cheating ex from Brooklyn.

“I do know he’s a twat,” Emre confirmed, shrugging.

“Okay mister “oh but I _never_ make the same mistake twice”. This must be at least the fourth time you’ve made this one.”

Emre titled his head back and gave a resigned sigh. “But if I hadn’t been out there this morning we wouldn’t have a goalie. So can we not do this now?” He titled his head in Philippe’s direction.

Adam gave a disgusted snort. “Alright,” he conceded. “Just stop. No more Martin Squirtle, okay? You need someone you can look after. Find yourself someone _nice_. Someone helpless and _cute_.” There was so much tease in the emphasis he put in that last word that Philippe was pretty sure it was a nudge. Emre’s cheeks coloured slightly, but it may have been because he was glaring at Adam ferociously, and his fury was absolutely terrifying.

Adam was completely unfazed, raising his eyebrows before giving Emre a playful side-eye and winking generously.

“Don’t think I don’t see it,” he said. Then to Philippe, “don’t mind that face. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” He dodged Emre’s kick at his thigh.

“Enough from you,” Emre declared, getting up. He reached out to help Philippe up, and when Philippe begrudgingly reached back he found his hand enveloped in Emre’s palm and it wasn’t quite what he’d expected; his fingers pressed back so hesitantly in to Philippe’s wrist that it was amazing that he could even grip at all, and his touch was soft like velvet.

_He must have very good hand moisturiser._

Blood rushed from Philippe’s head and he swayed backwards as he rose. _Shit_ , he thought, squeezing his eyes shut and preparing for the inevitable tumble backwards, when something pressed against his lower back to steady him.

Emre’s lips were parted in a shrewd grin that reached his eyes. His hand pushed softly against Philippe’s back, his palm forcing it gently into an arch.

“You’re gonna have to do better if you want to get one up on me,” he said, the quiet laugh stretching his lips further. He let go, leaving sparks of a strange feeling flittering up and down Philippe’s spine.

“Don’t underestimate the cub, Emre,” Adam called, pulling himself to sit between the goals where Philippe had been only moments before. “I have a feeling about this one.”

When Philippe handed him the sunglasses as he struggled out of his coat Adam slid them back in to his hair and gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m counting on you to kick ass.”

Kicking ass was _so_ far down Philippe’s list of priorities.

When Philippe told people that he knew football; it was because he _knew_ football. He didn’t know it like a pundit or a columnist, or just any fan. Philippe knew it because more of it ran through his veins than blood. The ball did what he told it to when he touched it, like it was merely an extension of his foot. He’d played so often on the local Astroturf with Alberto that some sixth sense told him where the net was without him ever have to look. No matter how long his day had been, and there had been a few ten p.m. sessions involving angry, angry free kick practise: Philippe would leave the court with all the stress running from his back like a stream.

So when Emre rolled the ball to him and Philippe stopped it under his foot, his fear of perspiration transformed in to: _Yes. Yes_ , this _is a step I can get behind._

Wind _whooshed_ through his chest, making the damp sweat patches of his shirt stick to his skin, drying the edges of his scalp. It felt liberating. He felt gross, but he felt free.

Emre dusted his hands down and pushed his hair back again, nodding curtly at Philippe to let him know he was ready.  

Philippe gently nudged the ball forward with the outside of his foot, his toes taking the weight of his body as he cautiously took on Emre; wary of the threat of elbows. Even at his full height, Philippe barely reached Emre’s chin; and his shoulders seemed wider from the front.

Philippe dinked, nudging the ball the opposite way to Emre’s lunge, skipping around him when he turned in confusion and toeing the ball toward Adam in the goal. Adam applauded and gave the ball its final nudge as it began to roll to a stop just before the line.

“Whose side are you on?” Emre demanded, as Adam held out his hand gleefully to Philippe for a fist bump, and Philippe padded over to reciprocate it.

“The one where I’m right,” Adam quipped, and when Emre titled his head with a silent, narrow-eyed reply of _Seriously_? Philippe realised rather belatedly that he was laughing. Rough, coughing laughter, like that function had been dormant for too long; his ribs complaining with the sudden pressure as adrenalin squeezed them around his lungs.

Emre looked at him, his mouth opening in surprise, and then he gave him a sideways grin. And Philippe laughed again, there was new blood pounding through his legs and clean air in his lungs even though his stomach still swayed. His cheeks felt hot when he saw the grin rather triumphantly reach the other side of Emre’s face. He looked rather resplendent and regal all of a sudden.

Emre learned quickly for round two. He read Philippe’s dummy and blocked his path, something Philippe hadn’t counted on when he slammed face-first in to his chest, just about steadying himself when he gripped in to Emre’s t-shirt, using it as a lever to push off him again, sprinting after the ball as it rolled away from them on the grass, sprinting shoulder to shoulder with Emre; shoving, because that ball was _his_.

Emre wasn’t faster, but he was stronger, his legs were longer. Philippe realised that he wasn’t going to make it, and in a moment of desperation, curled his ankle around the front of Emre’s foot.

Emre gave an indignant yelp as he suddenly lost his balance and Philippe yipped in alarm when a long arm curled around his waist and was tugged down to the ground after him, his knees burned as they slid across the hard soil under the thin winter grass.

“Don’t play him at his own game, Philippe!” Adam’s voice called from far away in the distance.

Philippe yowled and kicked out with his legs, thrashing with his elbows as that arm fastened around him and held him down, the horizontal angle messing with his senses and coordination, his world a smell of faint burning and aftershave and unbearable heat that matched the temperature of the blood pounding against the surface of his skin.

The tussle ended when he managed to get his knee in to Emre’s stomach, making him release his grip with an “ _oof_!” so he could roll away sideways and lurch to his feet, head spinning as gravity kept all the blood in his body at his feet and he stumbled forward.

 _Ball_ , he thought, _ball_ , _ball_ , _ball_ , my ball.

He slid to his knees and pulled himself up again, teetering as he gathered the ball back at his feet, his vision blurring as he saw the goal in his mind: the two markers on the ground, the vague shape of Adam to beat; everything dimming as he swept the ball curling in to the air and fell straight backwards on to the ground.

Adam was wooping. Emre was wiping dirt from his knees. Philippe’s buttocks ached from landing directly on them and bouncing as he hit the ground. He looked down at his knee and realised that his jeans were ripped; he could see the faint tinge of red under the diagonal tear in the fabric where the skin was grazed. _How did that happen? No wait. I fell_. Philippe blinked. _Yeah. That was it._

He turned, recognized that the heat bubbling through his skin wasn’t perspiration, and vomited bile and pancake all over the grass. The acid in his throat and the sudden, sharp burning sting of his knee made his eyes water.

“Oh dear,” someone said. Something else soft pressed to his forehead. The smell was familiar but not bad.

“Look at me,” another, deeper voice murmured. Philippe blinked and tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heaved again, although nothing came out, and his mouth burned.

“Shhh,” a soft touch curved around his face, turned it. “You’re going to be fine,” Emre promised seriously, flattening his enormous palm across Philippe’s forehead now to take his temperature. _How can he tell?_ Philippe wondered desperately. _He’s too fucking warm himself._

Philippe hiccupped, so hard that when it twisted his stomach sharply his eyes watered more.

“Fuck,” he choked.

“You over-exerted yourself,” Emre said, frowning as he pushed Philippe’s hair back from his face, one arm around his back to steady him.  

“You told me to play football,” Philippe protested weakly.

“Yes. I never told you to practise martial arts, though,” Emre’s mouth twisted disapprovingly. He moved from a squat beside Philippe and down on to his knees.

Philippe remembered the kick to the stomach and winced. “Self-defence,” he declared.

“You tripped _me_ ,” Emre stated, shifting him closer. “Idiot.” Philippe felt it was endearing. He shuddered and gripped in to Emre’s t-shirt, tugged down the collar.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he said again, as his stomach twisted. He turned his head in to Emre’s shoulder to hold his breath.

“Awh, poor little cub,” Adam’s voice said sadly. Philippe opened one eye a crack and saw Adam down on his hunkers beside them. He patted Philippe’s good knee.

He did realise that he was in a rather compromising cuddling position with someone he’d only met that morning. If only he wasn’t so comforted by it. Emre was very cuddly. If he was going to argue technical adulthood, this was probably not the best moment: with this desperate need to be held and crying over a boo-boo on his knee and all. He shut his eye again and smothered his face with cotton.

“I’m sorry,” Emre said gently. “Sometimes that happens. It’ll get better. Promise.” Something soft ran along Philippe’s cheek and he whimpered, clawing and burrowing deeper.

“What do you think?” Adam’s voice said to Emre. “I think it’s time for step four, don’t you?”

 _No_ , _no_ , _no_ , no, Philippe thought. _No more steps. No more. I am done. I am_ done.

“Step four,” Emre agreed.

* * *

 

**[Step 4: Take a cold shower to abruptly jolt your mind to alertness]**

Emre lived in Greenwich Village.

“No,” he’d insisted. “I don’t live _at_ WashingtonSquare. To get to mine we have to get out at _Washington Square Station_.”

 _Same diff_ , Philippe had decided. “You live in one of the ten most expensive zip codes in the entire United States of America.”

“Don’t get too excited.”

“Is this one of those Billionaires Undercover shows? Is that it?”

Emre gave him a scathing look, his lips twitching. “You’re funny,” he said, rather flatly.

“And you work in a dodgy pancake house.”

“I work _ed_.”

“He lives in an attic,” Adam had quipped. “Granted, a well located attic. But it’s an attic. You’ll see.”

It was beyond Philippe to keep up the protest, given he’d spent most of the ride there with his head between his knees, or with his head pressed in to Emre’s t-shirt, which was unfortunately super comforting. Philippe was wondering would it be weird and forward to ask to take the t-shirt home with him, as he stood shivering under his coat and Emre’s jacket, with his head pressed to his very comfortable left pectoral muscle.

This stint on the M was, however, considerably easier: even though the carriage was packed with Sunday traffic and Very Loud Tourists who all poured on and off at Bleecker Street; Philippe didn’t mind. It had nothing to do with how Emre’s gargantuan arms would sweep him closer and he’d look all frowny and knightly and concerned whenever the carriage doors opened.

 _This can’t happen_ , Philippe told himself. _This cannot happen with the guy you met while you were both doing the walk of shame_.

“See you later, Cub,” Adam had said, patting his head and giving Emre a Look before he manoeuvred his way on to the platform. Philippe caught one last glance of his hair floofing over the top of the crowd before he disappeared.

“What was that for?” He asked.

“What was what for?” Emre was frowning at a guy who had lugged several large suitcases on with him and caught Philippe’s elbow in the process. He tugged Philippe closer to him, almost without meaning to and his lips forced into a thin, unimpressed line. Philippe, who had taken the subway pretty much every day of his life, hadn’t bothered getting even mildly annoyed about it- but he was quite happy for Emre to do so. Mild annoyance did nice things to Emre’s cheekbones.

“Adam,” Philippe continued, “why did he make that weird face at you?”

Emre didn’t look at him, but glanced down the carriage. “Sometimes Adam likes to think he knows things,” Emre said. “When he doesn’t. This is one of those times.”

“Ah,” Philippe said weakly, as though that actually made any sense.

They got off at West 4th Street, poured out of the train with all its loudest occupants. In a panic Philippe gripped at Emre’s wrist, and Emre responded by stroking down his palm and through his fingers in one swift movement, clutching them tight as he pulled Philippe after him through the crowd.

Downstairs was hot and sticky but upstairs was cold and windy and Philippe’s breath came out like smoke. The sun still hadn’t come out from behind the clouds; that he could have sworn looked duller and greyer.

“It’s going to rain,” Emre confirmed, reading his thoughts.

Philippe was never usually in the Village. “In all the pictures, the arch looks brighter during the day,” he said.

Emre dropped his hand. “You’ve never been?”

“I didn’t go to NYU,” he explained. “And, I dunno. Not much in to jazz.”

Emre gave him a sideways look that might have been amused. “Come on.”

Adam hadn’t been exaggerating about the attic. The lift stopped to Emre’s on the fifth floor, leaving them climbing two more to the attic. Philippe had half noted before how Emre walked with his head stooped, but had had sort of just assumed that it had more to do with how he kept small company: like Philippe and all five and a half feet of him, and even Adam; who Philippe considered normal-sized for someone from New York, but still a good half a foot shorter than Emre.

But no: if Emre had straightened to his full height in his apartment, he would be scraping his head off the ceiling.

“Attic,” Emre said, when he pointed this out.

Philippe had seen poky flats in his time. Emre’s was a whole new level. There was the smallest window over a sink to his right when he walked in through the door, a tiny corner of kitchen space: neat and ordered despite the yellowing linoleum, bookended by a tiny fridge and a washing machine. Immediately to his left was the bed, which took up pretty much the entire carpeted space; and a cobbled together clothing rail and drawers that Philippe knew to be IKEA’s finest, and a larger window leading to the fire escape.

“Still,” Philippe protested, “how does anyone rent a cubic foot in his neighbourhood without being left it in a will?”

“Depends on how related you are to the landlady,” Emre said, as-a-matter-of-factly, hooking the key up from behind the door. Carefully, he smoothed his jacket down Philippe’s arms- Philippe let him, because there was something about the way Emre handled him with care, and he could get used to it- and hung it up behind the door.

“You alright?” he asked. “You looked a bit green in the lift.”

Philippe shook his head. “It’ll pass.” The waves of nausea were passing a lot faster than they had in the park. He shrugged off his coat and folded it over his arms.

Emre had explained the fourth step on their way to the train, and Philippe had to admit that it sounded like a pretty sweet deal. Well. The sweetest deal so far.

The bathroom faced the bed- an old crooked door frame with a curtain for privacy. The shower curtain was a mass of old lady flowers, and it matched the blue wall and floor tiles. Emre’s t-shirt caught on his shoulder blades when he leaned into the shower and turned it on.

“Let it run for a while,” he explained, pushing his hair back again. He had a lot of patience for his hair, it seemed. “I know I said a cold shower but any kind of one would do for you.”

“A’ight,” Philippe murmured. Emre watched him for several seconds, appeared to consider adding something more; before moving carefully past him; angling his body so that it didn’t brush past Philippe’s in the tiny space. He waited for Emre to step out of the room again fully and draw the curtain closed over the door, before he pulled his shirt over his head.

He looked around quickly and realised that he had nowhere to put it. The bathroom was so small that he could have easily sat on the toilet, washed his hands and had one foot in the bath at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the edge of the chest of drawers on the other side of the curtain and quickly tucked his hand out and balanced his shirt carefully on it. He peaked out in to the room. Emre was opening the window beside the bed and rubbing his face with one hand. Philippe maybe stared for a bit too long.

Quickly, he shucked his trousers down, the blood on his knee had dried and he whimpered when he tore scab off with it, biting down in to his lip. They were too tight on his legs and he had to suppress more pained noises; there was no way to make the irritant fabric not rub against the graze. When he finally slid it around his ankle, balanced half on the edge of the sink, there were actual tears in his eyes.

 _It’s only a graze_ , _but fucking_ ow.

He hated these jeans anyway; the minute he got home they were going in the bin. Alberto would probably tell him that rips were fashionable.

_Sod Alberto, though. Honestly._

Tentatively, he reached his hand under the water to test it, and immediately recognised what an excellent idea this was. Lukewarm water trickled down over his hand and arm like a silk glove, and then around his shoulder as he moved in to the soft cascade; down his back. He could feel sweat and dirt and mud and blood as the water caused the silt on his body to shift. He ducked in head under, felt it slowly begin to weigh in his hair; felt his knee sting like fire.

He stood like that, for several long seconds, because _wow-_ this felt like actual reincarnation. Then he wiped the water from his face and reached for the shower gel bottle.

He scrubbed. He scrubbed it all away: the sweat, Dejan; the embarrassment, even tried to get the feeling of Emre’s hand in his out from under the print indents of his fingers. He scrubbed until his skin turned red. Emre’s shower gel wasn’t particularly masculine, like Philippe’s and Alberto’s, in that habit since they were twelve. If anything, it smelled like peaches; and the inside of his shower was very clean.

 _Someone raised him well_.

The shampooing process took slightly longer- his roots felt sweaty and the feeling only dissipated after the third rinse, and pulling the stubborn styling wax from the ends was like trying to scrape chewing gum from a sidewalk.

He wondered about Emre’s hot water supply as he stared up in to the running shower head. This felt like his own personal bubble, his escape pod. He never wanted to leave. He opened his mouth, let it fill with water- gargled out the taste that lingered at the top of his throat: it tasted like warm camembert smelled.

But he was clean. His hair was clean. He stepped out of the shower, carefully toeing for the floor mat, and pushing his hair out of his eyes as he felt for the towel rack, wrapping it around his shoulders as droplets of water froze suddenly against his skin and he began to shiver. He patted his face dry, his neck; rubbed life in to his arms and legs but treaded carefully as far as his stomach was concerned. He cloaked his hair with it next and massaged it dry, curling his fingers down in to his scalp when he kneaded it from sopping to slightly damp. The lack of gel meant it coiled and bounced off his forehead and he sighed, but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

He reached out past the curtain and his hand fell on hard wood. He froze, frowned; patted it again but his clothes, wherever they were, were not on the dresser where he’d left them.

He paused, and then carefully tucked his head around the side of the curtain.

They weren’t on the dresser, or on the floor; or in the immediate vicinity around the bathroom threshold.

He swallowed his panic and ducked back in again. He carefully secured the towel around under his arms- no way was he showing off his completely unrefined chest when it had to compare to Emre’s- before he pulled the curtain back.

“Um,” he started, “where are my clothes.”

Emre had opened the window beside the bed and sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the fire escape.  He turned, drawing a long cigarette from his lips and looking at him blankly, stretching his arm out over the railing and catching the edge of his sleeve, lips drawn together to hold the air in; his eyebrows straight and thick and sceptical.

Philippe had no words.

 _Shit_ , Philippe thought, _shit. He looks so good. Oh my god_.

 _And I am in a towel_ , _with a curly hair like a beauty pageant princess. This can’t be real._

Arctic air whooshed in and Philippe hugged his arms around himself, gritting his teeth together to stop them chattering.

“Huh?” Emre asked, letting all the smoke out in a small cloud.

Philippe swallowed.

“What did you do with my stuff?” he asked weakly.

“Oh.” Emre turned back to his smoking cigarette and took a long inhale, drawing out the peaks of his cheekbones. Philippe swallowed so hard his throat hurt. “They’re in the washing machine,” he said, nasally through his held breath.

Philippe had maybe swallowed a little too hard, and he started to cough. “What?” he croaked; his eyes stinging.

Emre blew out slowly. “Did you expect to put them back on? It would have totally reversed the effects of the shower.”

Philippe felt like pointing out that only he was allowed to make that observation, otherwise it was an insult.

“I dunno. I’m cold,” he whispered, as his teeth banged off each other when he shivered so hard that he nearly lost his balance.

Emre carefully placed his cigarette on the edge of the balcony and pulled himself up, hoping down from the window with light stocking feet.

“Aren’t you? Cold?” Philippe asked.

Emre grinned and spread his bare arms. “No?” he said, his smile so light and easy, and then completely without warning placed one hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

Philippe yelped and recoiled when the touched singed, pulling the towel tighter around himself. “You really need to look in to your body temperature,” he hissed. “That’s not normal.”

Emre laughed and then turned to his wardrobe. “Your hair is curly,” he said.

“Yeah,” Philippe agreed cautiously. “Why?”

Emre shrugged. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Here,” he pulled another set of sweats out and handed them to Philippe, draping them over his shoulder when he realised that Philippe’s arms were a bit preoccupied with holding his towel up. “They might be a bit big.” Wow. The sky _might_ be blue.

“How many pairs of sweats do you have?” Philippe asked feebly.

“Two,” Emre said, rolling his eyes like it was obvious. His grin seemed to turn shy and he added a jumper, a t-shirt and something else that could have been socks to the pile on Philippe’s shoulder, as Philippe tried to hold it there with the point of his chin. Emre pulled the curtain over to let him back in to the bathroom, and Philippe waddled in as fast as he could just before the towel dropped.

He hoped desperately that the curtain had closed over fully before that happened.

He had to roll the track pants up several times, so much so that the hems weighed against his ankles. They were too big for his waist, so he had to stretch the string at the waist band and tie it as tight as he could. Even then they felt like they sat uncomfortably low. The t-shirt was long enough to touch the top of his thighs. _He is taking the piss_ , Philippe thought, annoyed: _I’m not that short._ The jumper was made of thick, grey, flaxy wool and looked too holey to hold any real warmth, but the minute he pulled it down he felt the insulation kick in. The socks were huge and the turn for the heel was at the level of Philippe’s ankle.

He rubbed down the mirror. There was nothing he’d be able to do with curly mop. _Besides_ , _Emre seemed to like it._

He spotted the mouthwash bottle before he left; and hesitated before taking a swing. The taste of vague mint was still better than the lingering one of vomit, and would have to mask it until he got home. That was when he caught sight of the tiny unshaved patch under his jaw.

 _Nooo_ , he thought, tilting his chin up and rubbing at the tiny dark, bristly patch just on the underside; like that would diminish it. _No_ , _no! How did I miss that?_ Running out the door after Dejan Lovren, was what. _Fuck. I look like a fucking goat_ , he realised despairingly.

If anything, the love bites didn’t look so bad. He rubbed at them too. One or two, and Emre was right. It _did_ look like he’d been drawing on himself.

And now all he was doing was making his chin red from all the rubbing it was getting, and it was helping nothing at all.

He took a deep breath. _Well_ , _he’s put up with you this far._  

“You smoke?” he tried when he climbed out to the fire escape to sit beside him. The metal grille poked in to his sock.

Emre squinted at him when he exhaled. “Sometimes it works better than coffee,” he said.

Philippe sat down next to him, sliding his legs through the railings and letting them dangle down towards the street below. He had to stretch his arms to his elbows could rest along the cool metallic top, whereas Emre’s could drape across it with ease. It wasn’t the most comfortable seat in the world- indeed, it was like sitting on a bed of nails- but he’d had practise sitting on fire escapes in his time.

“Does it fit alright?” Emre asked. His fingers had been tangled around his cigarette, when he lifted one hand and pulled gently at the jumper at Philippe’s side. “Your stuff should be done in another half an hour. I’ll put it in the drier.”

Philippe nodded, watching his dangling socks. “Why are you never cold?” he asked. “It’s like… forty degrees out.”

Emre looked sideways at him, as if to say _so_?

“You’re wearing a _t-shirt_.” Philippe stretched to bury the side of his face in to the crook of his elbow, just hiding his nose far enough to he could still look up at Emre.

Emre shrugged. “I’ve been colder,” he promised.

Philippe watched him. He watched how Emre’s eyebrows curved, how they were thick, how his scruff seemed a day too long, how even though he squinted in the light his eyes were clear and brown. How the tops of his ears turned slightly out and down from the sides of his head.

“What?” he asked, when he noticed Philippe staring.

Philippe made sure to bury his head further in to his sleeve so Emre wouldn’t see that his cheeks flushed.

“I told you my story,” he said, of the first thing that popped in to his head, “so I was wondering… why doesn’t Adam like Martin? Martin you… you know.”

Emre sniffed, and turned stiffly away. “I know.”

He didn’t look like he was going to continue, so in a moment of madness, Philippe swung out and kicked at his suspended ankle.

Emre jumped, but he smiled. “Bossy,” he scolded, amused; like Philippe was merely his misbehaving puppy.

“I literally told you everything,” Philippe said. “And it’s all _embarrassing._ ”

“I like hearing about you,” Emre frowned at the stub of his cigarette, nearly smouldered out to the filter, “you tell a great story.”

“Because it’s humiliating. My second hand humiliation is funny to everybody.”

“No. It’s the way you tell it,” Emre took a half drag and then stubbed it out on the metal. “That’s _funny_.”

Philippe paused, stumped. “That’s not usually the adjective people use for my stories,” he said, as Emre raised his brows. “Normally it’s just that I’m crazy. Or, you know- calm down and shut up.”

Emre flashed his teeth at him. “Mine isn’t nearly as interesting.”

 _But I want to hear it_.

Emre rubbed at the back of his neck with his palm. “Alright,” he said. “Just let me…” he curled his hand around Philippe’s shoulder and used it to slightly push himself from the balcony when he turned. “Are you hungry yet?” he asked from behind him.

Philippe’s stomach tightened. “No,” he admitted. _I wish I was_.

“Cool,” Emre murmured. When Philippe twisted around to watch him he was fingering another cigarette from the packet on the bed, and tucking it behind his ear carefully. Philippe straightened back around when Emre climbed back out again.

The view from Emre’s place was only as spectacular as the next tallest building; that was to say: not very. The window faced out across an alley to the opposite block: fancy, Georgian terraces with white dormer windows.

It was Emre’s turn to nudge at his ankle.

“Martin is sort of objectively terrifying,” he was saying. “He has a bit of the KBG secret spy vibe to him; with an accent and tattoos.”

“Is that why Adam doesn’t like him?” Philippe asked.

“The tattoos?” Emre said, with a small secret smile. “No. Adam can’t talk. He has some sort of mythical dragon thing going on here,” he motioned down the side of his ribs. “Martin is just a twat.”

“Then why do you go back to him?” Philippe probed. He didn’t care if it wasn’t any of his business.

“I know him,” Emre said simply. “I know what to expect. It’s easy when I’m wasted.”

Philippe took a deep breath.

“Do you love him?”

Emre let out a sudden crack of laughter that made Philippe jump.

“No,” he said firmly, pushing gently against Philippe’s shoulder with his hand in jest, making him lean slightly away. “We never even went on date. That’s why Adam’s so annoyed about it.”

“Like…” Philippe chewed his lip. “Like when you were with the waitress at the restaurant?” He hoped that he didn’t sound too eager.

Emre didn’t look surprised. “No, Adam liked her.” He didn’t elaborate. Philippe swallowed back a _but did you date her?_

“And…” the thought had been in Philippe’s head for a while. “Adam?” he asked tentatively, shooting Emre a sideways look.

Emre’s jaw went slack. He kicked at Philippe’s ankle again. “You think I’m a _slut_ ,” he said incredulously.

“No,” Philippe said defensively, half-stomping back with his heel. “I’m just testing. You know. How far you can… uh… I mean. You could probably.” He buried his mouth in to his forearm to shut it, his cheeks blazing.

Emre sat back on his hands, his grin spreading and spreading across his face like a Cheshire Cat. “You think I’m _charming_ ,” he said, in a funny, scathing voice. When Philippe resolutely didn’t reply he swung his foot out again and curled it around Philippe’s ankle, swinging them together. And when Philippe didn’t fight that either, he drew his sock up the side of Philippe’s calf and it sent sparks through Philippe’s nerves and he jerked it free.

“Alright,” Emre said, Philippe could hear that he was still smiling smugly. “I’ll stop harassing you.”

There was silence.

“You think _I’m_ charming,” Emre said again, still sounding funny, but now definitely teasing.

“Shut up,” Philippe mumbled. He didn’t dare look back at him again.

“Alright,” Emre said quietly.

More silence. Silence was easy with Emre, he didn’t sit through it like he expected you to add something; but like the silence was a conversation in itself.

After several minutes, Philippe let his foot swing back and curl around Emre’s ankle this time. Emre’s hand touched the back of his spine when he sat up.

“I wasn’t hitting on you,” he offered gently, his heel pressing back in to the edge of Philippe’s ankle.

“I know,” Philippe whispered. _I just like feeling that you’re there_. Ugh. That would be such a creepy thing to say. “Are you going to tell me more about you?” he added, still in the same tiny voice.

“Like what,” Emre asked.

“What do you do?” Philippe swallowed and let his head turn to rest on his arm. Emre was staring straight ahead, like the bricks on the opposite wall held the answers to all the secrets of the universe.

“For a job.” he clarified.

Emre shrugged. “What I’m needed to do. In restaurants, mostly. SoHo, at the moment. I’ll cook if they need me to. I’ll wait tables if they need me to. Mostly I wash dishes.”

“Oh,” Philippe said.

“I travel, too,” Emre said. “When I have enough. Wherever I want. Europe, a lot.”

“Travel,” Philippe repeated quietly. “Wow. Before this morning I don’t even think I left the island of Manhattan.”

Emre swung their feet slightly. “You got on at Marcy Avenue,” he said. “A lot of people would consider that as still being Manhattan.” He laughed a little at his own joke. “Never?”

Philippe shook his head. “My parents live on 43rd street,” he said. “I still go home to do my laundry. I moved out when I went to uni, though.”

“To 153rd,” Emre remembered. “Columbia?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” Philippe said quietly. “Full scholarship.”

Emre pursed his lips. “Nice,” he admitted. Then, “my parents moved back to Germany last year. They used to live downstairs.”

“Europe,” Philippe said, accidentally dreamily. Instead of the three million other questions in his head, among them: _Germany? You’re German? Downstairs? Is that the landlady you’re related to?_ He said: “Wow.”

Emre shook his head, like it was no big deal.

“Thank you,” Philippe said suddenly. He couldn’t look at him.

“For what?” Emre asked in his peripheral vision.

“Helping me.” Philippe’s voice no longer existed. He shook his head, in case Emre hadn’t heard. “You didn’t have to.” _To help, listen to, feed and now mother me_.

Emre huffed. “First Adam. Now you. What else was I meant to do?”

“Leave me there to die,” Philippe said, probably slightly too dramatically, and Emre spluttered when he laughed. “Not everyone would do that out of…” _goodness_ , “and not ask for anything. Or, you know… What I want to say is that owe you. You know. Within reason.”

Emre pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, and twirled it around his fingers. Philippe watched. It was obviously something Emre was practised at, but he was still amazed that it didn’t drop.

“You don’t owe me,” Emre said. “Look, I probably wasn’t very nice to you this morning. I was hungover and would have been quite happy not to interact with another human being ever again.”

“Same,” Philippe said, and Emre smiled at him.

“I noticed,” he said, his teeth dragging on his lip.

 _I noticed too_ , Philippe thought, thinking about how much easier Emre seemed to find it to smile now.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Emre said, “for being decent.”

“Any time you’re hanging up near Columbia,” Philippe said, “holla.”

Emre shifted closer, winding his leg the whole way around Philippe’s now, so their knees banged.

“I will,” he murmured. He tapped the cigarette off his thumb, contemplating it.

Something unspoken passed between them. Philippe pressed back in to his leg. In the silence, he heard the washing machine reach the _Spin_ part of its cycle, rocking and rattling against the floor.

 _I don’t want to go_ , he thought. _I like it here. I mean_ , _I’m cold… but I like it here._

Being with Emre was so easy. Emre was neat and beautiful and didn’t ask for Philippe to be smart or funny; he didn’t ask anything of him.

_What would that look like though? If I met him on the street and went back to his place and we…?_

_I met the guy this_ morning. _I don’t_ know _him. Why am I in his apartment_ low key flirting _with him. Is this going to go any other way. Should I stop it._

 _You can’t assume that_ , he reminded himself. _Remember Dejan. Just because you’re here doesn’t mean that he’s in to you._

He lifted one elbow from the rail and dug his fingers in to his scalp, to shift the wet hair that stuck to it, because it was close to freezing on his skin. The air was colder again as he shook it through.

Emre had laid his head on his hands, his cigarette still sitting untouched between his fingers, when Philippe twisted his head to shake the other side.

Emre was smiling softly at something, Philippe was willing to bet that it wasn’t the opposite building; which he was he was staring at.

“You think I’m a slut,” he said.

“Huh?” Philippe had been clearing water from the inside of his ears. “Well. Like. Anyone I’ve met today with you, you’ve slept with.”

Emre bit down on his lip.

“You’re not denying Adam.”

“I’m not denying Adam,” Emre agreed.

“So…” Philippe trailed off. “And like. Crazy trips to Europe too. I’m betting. Like. I’ve heard about the French.”

Emre’s soft smile grew sheepish.

“I’m not saying it’s _bad_ ,” Philippe added quickly. “I don’t think you’re… that. Why not, right?”

“Right,” Emre said amicably. He pressed closer to Philippe.

“And it’s… a bit overrated isn’t it.” Philippe heard his voice go flat. His spread elbows touched off Emre’s on the railing. “Sex.”

Emre shrugged. “Not always.” He nudged carefully in to Philippe’s hip.

“I thought you said you weren’t hitting on me,” Philippe said; it came out like a whine.

“I’m not _hitting_ on you,” Emre sounded like he was having the time of his life. “I’m _comfortable_ with you.”

“And that merits excessive touchy-feels?”

“With you,” Emre said, Philippe had the impression he was choosing his words carefully. “Because.”

“Because?”

“You’re very cute,” Emre admitted. “I’m sure you know that.” Philippe squinted for signs of flush on his face, but it was probably the coolest delivery of the line that he’d ever seen. Not that anyone had ever called him “cute” before. What was this? The Disney Channel?

“I’m working on my menacing side,” he said. “I have to. I’m in finance.”

“Good luck with that,” Emre said. Then: “Interesting: you think I’m charming. And I think you’re cute. We both admitted to it, without alcohol being involved.”

“I haven’t admitted to anything.”

“But you haven’t denied it.”

Philippe paused. “I _haven’t_ denied it.” _I think you are an awful lot of things besides charming_ , _and I couldn’t deny them either._

Emre watched Philippe. Philippe watched the wall. The washing machine rattled on in the background.

Emre shifted his cigarette into one hand, and with his other curved it under Philippe’s elbow, ran along the inside of his arm and thumbed gently at the edge of his chin, stroking downwards to his jaw.

On the outside, Philippe was an ice block. Inside, he was a volcanic eruption.

Emre’s fingers wound their way under his chin, over his joined hands.

“Is this okay?” he asked, so close.

Philippe nodded. Emre’s hand was the same size as two of his, and was very comfortable.

Emre lifted his head and put his other cigarette through his teeth. He leaned in to Philippe when he searched in his pocket, drawing out a lighter.

 _Are his hands shaking?_ Philippe wondered; squinting when it took Emre more than one go to get it to light. The one he touched seemed fine.

Sirens sounded far away, and a motorbike roared down the adjacent street. Emre smoked. Philippe closed his eyes and parcelled Emre’s hand with his two, stroking the outside of it with his thumb, settling up against his side. He breathed.

It took a long time for Emre to finish. Philippe counted through his closed eyes. He only dragged every fourth, long breath.

He heard Emre stub it out, opened his eyes enough to see him toss it down the side of the fire escape.

“I’m going to get your clothes,” he said absently, gently tugging his hand from Philippe’s. “The cycle will be finished soon.”

Philippe, who must have been having more of a snooze than he’d thought, lifted his head a little groggily. And that was probably why when Emre moved back to slide his legs out from between the rails, Philippe put his hand across his chest to halt him.

He freed his legs and pushed up on his knees, pushed against Emre’s chest, who was better than any wall as solid support. He shuffled closer, letting his hand slide up to Emre’s neck.

There was a moment. There was a moment where Philippe considered not doing it, where Philippe considered letting this one be the one that got away; that he’d never know what the answer might have been. Where he watched Emre watch his lips when he leaned in, where his breath stopped and their noses were close enough to brush. He pressed the ends of his fingers in to Emre’s neck, when it stretched, when his lips parted.

Philippe touched his cheekbones, traced its arch from the dip to his jaw.

He hesitated, Emre’s neck stretched some more, his eyes sliding closed. He let his lips part slightly before he slowly took Emre’s. His heart rocketed around the inside of his chest like a rogue bullet, so hard that it hurt.

He climbed on to Emre’s lap, wrapped his legs around his hips. Emre’s arms folded around his back and he kissed in to Philippe, his tongue probed gently between his teeth, and Philippe let him.

Kissing Dejan had been wet and beer-y. Kissing Emre was excellent. His lips were soft, there was little desperate about it. Slow. Slow, the only thing frantic about this was Philippe’s heartbeat.

Emre stopped it as softly as he’d started.

“You’re going to have to tell me that you want this,” he whispered.

“I’m sure,” Philippe countered. “I really am, so sure.”

“Okay,” he said, grinning like nothing compromising had just happened. “Okay.”

Philippe didn’t trust his mouth to open and comment. He gave Emre one last closed-mouth kiss and wobbled to his feet. He climbed down from the window holding tight to one shutter, because his knees were knocking.

Emre touched gently at the edge of his arm when he passed him.

Philippe scooted on to the bed, trying not to place himself too close to the wall. When he turned, Emre had disappeared. Sounds of rifling came from the bathroom.

 _Don’t look nervous._ Philippe allowed himself to spread and sat back on his hands. Easy to say, wasn’t it? If only he could slow the pound of his heart, and ignore the burn that Emre’s fuzz had left when it had rubbed against his chin.

Emre reappeared. The end of the bed creaked when he slid smoothly on to it, sliding up and between Philippe’s legs, right up so their hips locked. If Philippe’s cheeks weren’t already aflame, the press of Emre’s solid body to his quickly brought him up to speed. He watched as Emre dropped the contents of his hands to the bed- familiar squared, flat, slightly shiny wrapping and a non-descript bottle of which, given the situation, Philippe didn’t have to make much of a leap to guess. He gulped, and Emre moved to smoothly slide his arms under Philippe’s.

He lowered his chest, slowly, carefully; his face level and close, tilting slightly to the side as he considered him.

“Hey,” he murmured. As his ribs expanded, they brushed against Philippe’s. Philippe was just about able to breathe. “Will you promise me?”

“What?” the word came out half-choked and very unsexily. It was hard to be anything like controlled when Emre was smouldering at him. Emre’s eyes were at their smoulder-iest of all, simmering like coals and all those other horrible clichés.

“You tell me to stop whenever you want,” Emre’s eyes flickered to Philippe’s lips. “You don’t like it. You don’t want it. And I will stop.”

“Right.” Emre’s lips had remained parted that time. Philippe wondered why he’d hesitated. Then he added: “I promise.”

Emre swayed forward and then, _finally_ , back against his mouth. Philippe melted again. He slipped back to his elbows and Emre followed, easing his body up against Philippe’s and pressing slightly, just hard enough so they reclined flat, and Philippe sank down in to the sheets. Emre’s arms pushed up against the underside of his, making Philippe almost involuntarily curl them around the top of his shoulders.

Emre’s hands moved. They slowly, carefully, moved down along Philippe’s ribs, the edge of his thumb tracing the dips between them through his t-shirt.

 _Stupid_ _pants_ , Philippe cursed, tugging at his waistband. He  was trying his best to undo the string he’d tied far too tight to keep them up with the hand that wasn’t in Emre’s hair, the soft press of Emre’s tongue against his was already making his fingers shake.

 _He is_ so _good at this_ , Philippe’s brain told him. Even the voice in Philippe’s head was a bit short of breath. _He is probably_ too _good at this. He’s too good to be amateur_.

And at this point they were only kissing.

Philippe tugged with two hands now and Emre paused, shushing gently in to his lips. “I’ll get it,” he said with a smile in his voice, his breath warm against Philippe’s closed eyelids.

Philippe had not realised how much his chest was heaving until Emre lifted himself from him. And then it got worse, because he opened his eyes; and then Emre reached for his hem and lifted his shirt over his head, above him, and Philippe truly ran out of air. From this vantage point he could see the long contours of the tight muscles of his stomach, the strain of his skin against each rib as he stretched; the dark hair that grew and thickened as it descended from his navel. The bones of his collar jutted sharply from the base of his neck in a long, prominent line to the edges of his shoulders, rounded and parcelled with muscle.

 _Holy_.

Emre discarded his tshirt from his arm with a single shake, sending more strands of hair sliding from his crown, and Philippe was left to stare, stumped, in the shadow of this glory.

 _Shit_.

Emre’s nose flared when he gave an amused snort at what must have been Philippe’s evident reaction, and set to work at the knot of his pants.

It was a pretty sensitive area for hands to be, especially ones that were as warm as Emre’s. Philippe’s teeth sunk in to his lip and he busied himself with his own top, wriggling it up and trying to push it through his arms. He pulled the jumper off first, the t-shirt was harder; twisted tight around his chest.

A hand curled around the front of his trousers and Emre’s palm pressed carefully, the pressing and easing with the same impossibly slow rhythm as his kiss. Philippe lifted his hips in to the push, _more_ , and in response, Emre’s fingers stretched further back and rubbed through the cotton.

Philippe gasped desperately.

 “Quit squirming,” Emre was saying, and Philippe stopped to glance down at an image that definitely didn’t help: Emre’s lips were drawn in to a ridiculous, frustrated pout. “Were you in the scouts or something? _There_ ,” and suddenly the tops of Philippe’s thighs felt rather cold. Soft hands slid under his knees and lifted them from the bed to slide the silky polyester around Philippe’s ankles one at a time.

Their mouths found each other again, and Philippe slid his hands to link his fingers around the back of Emre’s head this time, to keep him there. Fuck taking his shirt off. He tasted the smile on Emre’s mouth.

 “Close your eyes,” Emre might have been aiming for his ear when he pressed the words to Philippe’s cheek. His voice was a low growl that vibrated down Philippe’s spine, resonating in every vertebrae.

“Do you practise that voice?” Philippe tried to get his out past the dryness of his throat. “For this?”

Emre let out something like a snigger. The flat base of a finger, Philippe imagined his thumb, pressed down at the base of him, began to trace, and Philippe gritted his teeth to stop anything more than the tiny squeak that came up from his throat.

“If that’s what you like, Smart Alec,” he hummed against his mouth, licking back in to it again, harder now. His other hand wound behind Philippe’s head, nails dragging slightly against his scalp when he curled his fingers in to his hair. With the one huge, soft palm he wrapped around Philippe’s dick and started to stroke.

Philippe forgot how to kiss and instead just pressed Emre’s face to his, his lips to his open mouth, frozen; unaware of anything that wasn’t Emre’s touch at that part of him. “ _Shit_ ,” he heard his voice say.

His gasp somehow sounded scandalised. Maybe he was a bit scandalised: Emre’s hold moved frustratingly slow and was tantalisingly soft, and it coupled with the press of his lips and the tug of his hand through Philippe’s hair and Philippe squirmed up to him impatiently.

“In a hurry?” Emre’s eyes were crinkled at the edges.

“It’ll be over before you start,” Philippe snapped.

“Alright.” Emre’s lips ran along his cheek, pushed down under his jaw. He butted gently at the underside of Philippe’s chin when he kissed his neck and Philippe sank his nails in to the back of his shoulders, the only parts of Emre he could reach.

Emre nosed down the line of his chest, filaments of hair flopping down over his eyes and ticking Philippe’s stomach when Emre lifted his shirt to kiss at that too.

Philippe’s hips twitched. Emre lifted his eyes.

 _This is not my most flattering angle_ , was all Philippe could think. Emre’s eyes narrowed at him, that annoying smirk still playing about his lips when he slowly curved back up to sit. Philippe saw his hand reach and quickly closed his eyes again; tilting his head back and swallowing so hard it hurt his throat.

He heard the slow unscrewing of a cap, that wet, sticky sound and even though he knew the feeling of that first uncomfortable finger when it pushed around him, pushed against him, pushed inside him; he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Emre’s other hand spread over his stomach, twisting with and under the t-shirt, his thumb stroking softly at the skin just under his waist.

“Okay?” he asked.

Philippe nodded, he tried not to do it desperately.

Emre’s finger moved slowly, twisting and stretching as it slid in and out.

The second finger made Philippe tense, arch a little against the bed. The hand on his stomach pressed down.

That was when Philippe felt Emre take him where he was hard and slide him between his lips. Around him, down him, wet and hot and with his tongue pressed along his underside.

Weak, desperate expletives flew from Philippe’s mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut. Emre’s fingers pushed in him and out, and when they pressed again they curled to push in to that one knob of nerves just as he sucked hard and the vision behind Philippe’s eyes went white. He felt his tip drag along the rough roof of Emre’s mouth.

By the time Emre had slowly introduced a third finger, Philippe was begging; begging and patting desperately at the back of Emre’s head, somewhere between gripping it and pushing it. His fingers curled around the hand on his stomach, clutching tight; as tight as he could to keep himself tied to the ground. His legs bucked helplessly. Emre was touching him to draw him out: he’d press his fingers and then brush against that one spot, then beside it, _fuck_ : Philippe was just about holding on. He couldn’t look, he was barely in control.

The next gutted noise to be pulled from his throat made it burn, and Emre’s mouth slowly eased from him, fingers still keeping him stretched.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“ _Hrrrumphh_ ,” Philippe moaned. Emre’s hand eased out between Philippe’s hand and his belly. He let his eyes open a crack; just enough to see Emre rub himself up from outside his pants, shuck them down his thighs, then reach beside the bed again.

Philippe lifted his gaze quickly to the ceiling, the sight of Emre hard burning his corneas. There was a cobweb in the corner of the roof. A great big breath of air left his lungs when Emre pulled out his fingers. There was the crinkle of the foil packet, the washing machine rocking away far away.

And then Emre was there, at his lips again; and Philippe was hot but Emre’s breath was a lava wave. Emre looked down at him, his eyes moving slowly around Philippe’s face.

“Look at me,” he murmured, nosing gently against the inside of Philippe’s cheek. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

It was too late. Philippe thought he would now be forever trapped his eyes, a kaleidoscope of browns, sharpening and softening like a candle flame.

“Yeah,” he breathed back. He was surprised that he knew words.

Emre stole one last long kiss from Philippe’s lips, fastening one hand under his thigh and sliding it up to lift his knee back toward his waist.

Emre pushed in slowly, until Philippe’s jaw dropped at the feeling of fullness; different than fingers, something about the stretch, the swell as Emre went deeper, the way his breath seemed to hitch and his eyes flickered. His hand smoothed up Philippe’s outstretched arm and their fingers closed together, pressed down into the cold sheet.

Philippe’s breath came in short, and he could hear it echo off Emre’s skin. Emre’s nose ran slowly along the edge of his cheek. Their eyes locked. All Philippe knew was endless pupil. Slowly, carefully, Emre rocked in to his hips. His slid his arm under Philippe’s waist and gently eased his lower back from the bed. Philippe wound his arm around his neck, letting his fingers drag to the hair at the nape; their lips so close that the air between them was heavy and wet.

Philippe squeezed tight to Emre’s hand every time he felt the sharp angle of his hipbones graze his thigh. He gritted his teeth, holding on: the growing sensation ebbing and flowing low in his belly with each careful push.

Emre knew how to work him. Every time Philippe grew close enough to the edge to gasp he’d slow to an almost stop, eyes glittering; mouth searching for Philippe’s. Sweat gathered and cooled on Philippe’s neck. He was nothing, he was useless- he had Emre’s hand in his and it was the only thing that tied him to the ground.

The pulse of Emre’s hips grew. It was less cautious, more purposeful, his arm tight around Philippe’s waist, the push deep enough to make Philippe’s hips curl higher. Philippe gritted his teeth to muffle his groan and Emre nuzzled in against his neck, his mouth hot, his tongue pressing patterns in to Philippe’s skin as he let out a low growl. His fingers dug in to Philippe’s and Philippe gripped back in to his hand, pushed up against it and was met with equal force, squeezing and lessening with every gentle roll against him. Philippe’s hips twitched now to meet him.

Philippe felt the scorch of Emre’s eyes when they burned in to him, when they travelled over his face. The muscles on the inside of his thighs strained so hard he wondered if they might snap.

He heard himself beg. He begged in to Emre’s mouth, in to his ear; broken detached words that didn’t even feel like they were really his. Desperate, gasping, wanting: he wanted more of Emre’s incendiary skin; taking some of it under his nails as they dragged across his back as he struggled to stay rooted to Earth. He wanted that build to never stop.

He closed his teeth around Emre’s ear and tugged sharply, making a surprised groan fall from Emre’s lips as he unwound from around Philippe’s back and gripped down in to the sheet beside his ear, Philippe felt the pull of the covers turn his head. His eyes slid closed and he heard the slap of skin with every thrust: faster now, two for every breath from Emre that sounded in Philippe’s ear as it was nuzzled and nosed and kissed.

Emre barely had to touch him before he came. Philippe’s eyes rolled in to the back of his head and he gasped hard enough to split the seams of his lungs. He felt himself roll in to the touch, struggled to keep his legs around Emre. It was so consuming, so astonishingly wonderful that Philippe’s thoughts tangled with each other. Emre thrust so hard that Philippe wondered if his hips might break.

Emre finished with his eyes in Philippe’s, his breath short and his temples shining when it was finally cut off with a growl. His hips slowed, rolling deeper for longer and causing Philippe to hiss as he came down to the ground, realised that he was raw and that the insides of the top of his thighs ached. Emre lowered himself to Philippe’s chest, cradled his face in his hands, pulled all of the air from Philippe’s lungs with one long kiss.

“ _Shit_ ,” Philippe panted. Emre’s low laugh turned in to a growl when he carefully pulled out of him, and Philippe reflected forlornly on how strange it felt to be empty, and how Emre’s eyes fluttered slowly closed as he did so. Philippe’s legs fell from his back limply and landed with a dull thump on the bed. He winced at the movement. All of his limbs weighed several tonnes.

Emre pressed his head in to his neck, his chin digging in to the top of Philippe’s collar when he shifted to one side, leaving one leg tangled between Philippe’s at the knee. He felt his body slowly relax. Philippe ran his thumb down the outside of Emre’s still tight in his fingers, slowly stroking as Emre’s throat rumbled contentedly against his skin.

Philippe realised how much he was sweating. There wasn’t anywhere that wasn’t sweating. It poured from his neck, stuck the t-shirt to his chest- he was still wearing a t-shirt; a now very wet t-shirt, wrapped impossibly around him- and made Emre’s thigh chafe his knee. Sweat wet his hair and tickled his temple. His side felt weirdly cold against the air when Emre breathed out and caused his ribs to peel from Philippe’s skin.

Maybe there was something in the constant rhythm of his caress of Emre’s hand, how both their breathing started to steady and how maybe he was still riding that high: but Philippe was pretty sure he could live with never moving from here, from right this moment.

“No,” he murmured, when Emre lifted himself up. His eyelids were almost too heavy to blink open and it didn’t help when Emre placed two soft kisses on each one. He refused to lessen his grip holding their hands locked. Emre sighed against Philippe’s temple when he held his mouth there.

“I need to shower,” he mumbled, his eyes glowing and soft when he butted gently against Philippe’s forehead.

“No you don’t,” Philippe said groggily. His mouth turned upwards, drawn to Emre’s. “Don’t shower. Doooon’t. Shhhh. Stay.”

Emre snorted. “You’re okay though?” he murmured, thumbing Philippe’s chin up to meet his eyes.

Philippe’s eyelids were too heavy for this. “Yeah” he murmured his jaw moving stiffly against Emre’s hand. “Fine.”

Emre looked at him for a long second, his long eyelashes quavering softly when his eyes moved.  He moved forward, and Philippe wasn’t expecting to be kissed again; so it was possible that Emre got a lot of surprised teeth. Emre didn’t appear to mind.

“Do you want to go first?” he asked, his lips inches from Philippe’s face. And Philippe couldn’t stop looking at his lips. They had a red tinge to them, it made them rounder and fuller; like that could even be possible.

“S’alright,” Philippe managed. His top was suddenly too tight on him. He wriggled out the end of it, and while it still cloaked his face the mattress dipped when Emre got up from it.

In his walk towards the bathroom, Philippe saw the wide curve of Emre’s back; the long thin crevice of the line of his spine; the rounded and the thick ribbons of muscle, which clustered at the curve of his shoulder blades when he lifted his hand back to rub at his hip. His skin shone at the dip of his lower back where his sides tapered down to his waist.

 _Whoa_ , Philippe thought, lazily aiming the tshirt in the direction of the end of the bed; every moment woozy. He slid back to lie on top of the covers, rolling them around himself into a giant blanket burrito. Wind gusted through the open window and froze his damp neck.

 _Well_ done, _Coutinho_ , was the last thing he thought before he slept.

* * *

 

**[Step 5: Try a slice of something sweet, with maybe just a sliver of sympathy]**

Philippe had been dreaming of Alberto in a colourful jester hat and old lady shower curtains and Dejan smiling and offering him muffins- altogether not too unusual for his dreams- when it changed.

There was rain against the window. Big, huge lashing drops the size of minivans. They thundered and slapped and pounded against the glass.

It took him several seconds of staring at the window to realise that it was not his own.

He blinked. His eyes hurt, they felt bruised and stressed and a little dry when he rolled his lids up. Slowly, he became aware of his shoulders against sheet, his arms, his fingers that curled into soft fabric just above his head and the awkward angle of his arm. Awkward. _Not a dream._ That there was a duvet up to his shoulder. That something stifling heavy was weighing across his middle; and it crushed his hand to his side.

He rolled his head the other way to look.

Emre hadn’t even bothered getting under the covers, the soft angles of his body glowed in the dim light with every small twist of his torso throwing long fingers of shade down his ribs. His arm stretched around Philippe and curled tight around his middle, the sharp edge of his cheek against Philippe’s shoulder, the fuzz of his jaw itchy on his skin. His eyes shut softly and the slight breath from his nose tickled when it gently disturbed the very tiny collection of hair that Philippe had across his chest. In his sleep, he didn’t frown. There wasn’t a single line on his forehead.

 _He looks_ young, he realised with a start. Philippe hadn’t given much thought to how old Emre was, but here there was a roundness to the edges of his cheeks, puppy fat still lingering at the sides of his face. He looked so suddenly, devastatingly boyish.

Emre stirred. His hold tightened and he curled further in to Philippe, groaning deep in his throat. His eyes squeezed shut before he opened them. Philippe looked quickly up at the ceiling.

Emre coughed and his fingers pressed in to Philippe’s side when he pulled Philippe in to him.

“I know you’re awake,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek off Philippe’s shoulder.

Philippe kept his silence up for several more seconds, before: “I thought you said you weren’t hitting on me? You know,” he teased, stifling a yawn. It stretched his words, made the blood circulate in this jaw once more. “Earlier.”

Emre laughed and nudged in to his neck.

“I lied,” he mumbled.

“You’re bad at it.”

Emre sighed. “You started it.”

Okay. Okay Philippe could admit to that. Not out loud, obviously.

“Can I uh, ask a personal question?” Philippe said, turning his cheek down to press off Emre’s forehead. It was harder than he expected, because all other parts of Emre were so squishy. “How old are you? Like, in years.”

“Mhhh,” Emre blinked slowly. “In years? Twenty-one.” He croaked, the end of the word catching in his throat. “Why?”

It was about four years less than Philippe’s estimate.

“Really?” Philippe wished his whisper didn’t sound like a five year old seeing a monkey at the zoo for the first time. “You’re younger than _me_?”

“It’s the beard,” Emre said. Then he _humphed_ a smile. “I look twelve without it.”

Philippe grinned at him and Emre grinned right back, his lips like a silk sheath for his teeth, curling his neck up and nosing towards his mouth. Philippe’s chest tightened impossibly and he forgot how to breathe.

“Also, it makes your nose look smaller,” he blurted out. Emre stopped, and Philippe’s throat opened up to allow air, only a little bit.

“Excuse me?” His lips puckered when he sucked on his teeth. _He is even glorious when he’s petulant._

“You do have a very big nose,” Philippe said again, and Emre blinked at him, but looked like he was suppressing a smile; probably because he could feel Philippe’s heart slamming against the walls of his chest, “but like… its good. It’s all knightly. I mean, I have a big nose too but it’s like a potato on my face.”

Emre cracked, and Philippe felt a giggle grow up this throat when Emre shifted up and tugged him in tight to him to smother his laughter in his collar.

“Shut up,” he murmured.

“It’s true,” Philippe decided that he’d better stick with this while Emre still found it funny. “It’s a potato. On my face.”

“No,” Emre growled, dragging his lips along Philippe’s bare shoulder. Philippe’s skin tingled under the brush of his mouth. If it was meant to silence him, it worked; because his brain couldn’t form coherent thoughts with every synapse suddenly full of Emre; and Emre’s soft eyes when he raised them to Philippe’s; and they were so cosy and calming like a hearth.

“Well, I’ll reserve judgement on that,” Emre said. Then, “because I think it is perfectly normal sized. No resemblance to any vegetables.”

Philippe coughed when he laughed. “Sure?”

Emre looked at him for a second, then he lifted his body from the top of the sheet and raised the duvet to slide underneath it, to slide right up to Philippe; and Philippe’s mouth had opened but he couldn’t remember if it was in protest or surprise because Emre’s arm looped around him again and he pulled a careful kiss from his lips.

“I wouldn’t do missionary with someone with food produce for a nose,” he said casually, then grinning so his chin v-eed and his cheeks peaked. He kissed Philippe again, angling for the very edge of his mouth. Philippe’s mind was a haze with the feeling of skin on skin.

“Gee whizz,” Philippe whined, winded and probably very red. “Thanks. I feel super special right now. You have no idea.” He also felt super warm, and his spine felt light, remembering it.

Emre cracked in to a grin and smoothed the pads of his thumb along Philippe’s jaw when he tilted it up towards him.

Before, Emre’s heat had been too much. Earlier, in the park, Philippe had been so aware of it: an oven of radiation that would probably scald him if he touched him for too long. Philippe told himself that he was probably just acclimatising, but Emre was now at a suitably toasty; portable hot water bottle level.  

“Turn around,” Emre murmured. Philippe raised his eyebrow at him- rather feebly, he was still feeling a bit too sleepy for his normal level of hangover sarcasm- and wriggled out of his hold, turning his body to the window and the pellets of rain lashing against it. “You closed the window,” he concluded out loud.

Emre moved up behind him, kissing gently in to the skin where his hair ended at the base of his neck: uber sensitive and making Philippe shiver back, meeting Emre’s chest. Emre’s arm folded around his torso and his thumb pressed into the inside of Philippe’s elbow, stretched out across the pillow.

Philippe reached back with his feet and caught hold of Emre’s ankle, pulling his leg between his. Emre huffed and rolled forward, kissed in to Philippe’s cheek, and when Philippe twisted his head; held on to his mouth.

This was honestly the worst angle. Philippe felt his neck strain as he turned, and he couldn’t hold it there, wincing when Emre pushed him more in to it.

“I’m,” he started, and then yawned impossibly in to the pillow.

“Alright,” Emre said. When he leaned back, his nose still pressed in to just behind Philippe’s ear, gently tickling it with his breath. Philippe watched his finger run over the lines of ink on the inside of his elbow, stroking up in circles.

He waited for the questions. _Why? What are they for? What do they mean? How do you get away with them at work?_ But he just traced the lines again and again, like he was committing them to memory.

Philippe let his toes stroke down Emre’s ankle; he had to stretch a bit to reach. His eyes slid closed. Sleep crept through his brain.

“Twenty years in this city,” Emre said on a breath, “why have I only found you now?”

* * *

 

**[Step 6: Pick yourself up with a restoring shot of caffeine]**

The second time Philippe woke up, he knew exactly where he was, and his first thought went to the weight he no longer felt pressed to his back.

“Uh, Emre?” His voice barely made it up his throat. He rolled over as he jerked upwards, at his own peril: the muscles of his legs screamed, and there was this particular line of them down his lower back that probably snapped.

“ _Jesus_!” he yelped, falling back on to his elbows. “Mmh. _What_.” His voice hit is throat, parched like a sub-Saharan drought. Flinching, he eased his hand around his back and rubbed at the burn. As he edged upwards with this new support, _hunched like I’m ninety_ , _oh my God_ , he squeezed his lip with his teeth at the pain of the tight, pulverised muscles inside his thighs, and further back: the over-stretch.

He gave up, and slumped resignedly back down.

 _I can’t even sit_ , _how am I going to_ walk?

Outside, it had stopped raining, the cloud still hung low and heavy and dark. He saw the shadowed corner of the edge of the building, and what might have been a slightly brighter gleam where the sun was trapped. He was very aware of every breath.

“That’s why you should have showered.”

Philippe’s neck cricked, he turned it so fast.

Emre stood at the edge of the bed. He’d changed: his top had long arms now and was wide necked, his sleeves pulled down and wrapped around his thumbs, his hands cradling a blue mug.

Philippe sighed, smiled weakly after he ran his hand down his face again to wake himself. He pushed himself up carefully, one elbow, one side at a time, blanching when Emre sat down and jerked the springs under him.

“Just a bit stiff,” he rasped. Emre’s hand pressed down at his back, helped him upright. “And, uh,” he bit his lip, feeling himself burning, definitely around his ear area.

“Hard to sit?”

“Pretty much impossible.”

Emre pulled his legs on to the bed, and dark jeans clung better to his legs than sweats, Philippe decided. Although there was something inherently cuddly about the sweat pants. He balanced one hand to hold his mug steady and pushed himself back to lean against the wall behind the bed.

Suppressing a pained noise, Philippe inched back to him, curling his body back and meeting Emre’s shoulder when he did, feeling in arm move around to rest loosely at his waist.

It was comfortable for all of about nought-point-three seconds. Then he groaned and shifted again, Emre’s hand curled under the covers and around his stomach.

“I’m never going to be able to sit comfortably again,” he moaned.

“You’re welcome,” Emre said, sounding possibly the furthest thing from modest. He held the mug out. 

The smell of singed cocoa beans wafted under Philippe’s nose. He pulled himself up, feeling Emre clasp around him like a brace to help him straighten.

“Thanks,” he murmured, slightly embarrassed that he even needed help; taking the cup from him.

“It’s the next two steps,” Emre said. “For your hangover. Five: sugar, and six: caffeine.”

 _One left_ , Philippe thought, staring into the cup. The coffee looked like mud. He drank and made a face, but not for the usual, sour bite. “Ugh. Oh my _God_. Are you trying to give me diabetes? How much sugar is in this?”

Emre’s grin started at one side of his mouth and opened it like a zip. “Enough.”

Emre smelled like peaches. Fresh peaches? His hair was no longer gelled, but wet; Philippe realised. Where it dried around his temples it looked really glossy and soft. He’d taken a shower while Philippe had been a sleep.

 “How long was I out?” he asked. _Shit._ He thought. _No one has heard from me today._ He started to panic, but not too much- Emre seemed to cap his capacity to freak out with his marble-esque composure, like the smooth surface of an undisturbed lake. 

“A few hours,” Emre said. He pressed his lips in to the side of Philippe’s head when Philippe took another mouthful, making him bang his teeth off the porcelain when he flinched with surprise; this tender gesture that he wasn’t used to. And then Emre did it again, drawing closer. “You needed it.”

Philippe twisted and looked out the window: thought about the rain, thought about _why have I only found you now?_ He stretched his legs out under the covers, the undisturbed sheets felt like an icy curtain against his calves. The coffee seeped through the parched cracks of his throat. Beside him- still dimly irradiated in his warmth, with that slight stretch of a smile; Emre tilted his head while he watched him, like Philippe was something fascinating that had just happened to wander in to his house.

He reached out and patted the top of Emre’s head, slightly damp hair cool under his fingers. On the last tap he let them drag through it, to linger.

Emre held his hand out for the mug and Philippe handed it to him, and he took a mouthful. “What’s the last hangover cure step?” he asked.

Emre shook his head, settling the mug down again and balancing it on the peak of Philippe’s knees. “You aren’t ready,” he declared, with a dastardly grin.

Philippe narrowed his eyes at him. “One was carbs, right?” He started, ticking them off with his fingers, and pretending not to notice what it felt like to have Emre’s arm so casually draped behind his back. “Two was aspirin, three was exercise… four was the shower.” Emre handed the mug back to him and he took it, glad of the taste. _I can taste again._ He realised that his sense of smell had equally receded back to its normal level. “Five was sugar and six was coffee?” He paused. “None of them were sleeping with me?” he blurted accidentally out loud, feeling his cheeks burn, and he looked down in to the half empty mug, but unable to help himself from taking a peek for Emre’s reaction.

 _No ulterior motive?_ He wondered. _At all?_

Emre’s grin turned conspiring. “No. The plan was to get you to stop throwing up actually.”

“Oh,” Philippe said quietly. He hesitated; then hugging the mug to his chest, he tipped forward and turned his chin up and made sure the kiss he placed on Emre’s lips was suggestive enough. Suggestive enough that he let him know that Philippe wanted more of this. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d decided that: but he was certain of it.

He ran his hand along Emre’s jaw for emphasis, tipping it up so his mouth opened slightly, and Philippe could tentatively press his tongue against Emre’s teeth. Sour and sweet muddled through his taste buds when Emre let him in, pushing up to him, leaning to slide his hands around the hinge at Philippe’s hip. And, obviously, the absence of any stitching whatsoever on Philippe’s body meant that he felt it in a way that was slightly more than suggestive.

“Hmmm,” Emre murmured, pulling back with his eyes draw down. He lifted the mug cradled to Philippe’s stomach. “I’d never get the coffee stains out of my sheets if it spilled,” he explained.

Like Philippe could complain. Like Philippe was even, slightly, inclined to complain; because now he was free to hold Emre’s face in both of his hands, to feel the sharp, pointed edges of his cheekbones against his palms, and he felt Emre’s jaw move under his skin and he couldn’t help letting out a tiny, excited breath when he smiled against his will; watching Emre’s eyes go from dying embers to full on bonfire.

Emre stretched down and nudged carefully at his face with the tip of his nose. Philippe had been expecting more phenomenal kissing and started when Emre pulled back, tipping forward and on to the sheet when he stood up.

“What the fuck?” he croaked, pulling the covers back around himself.

Emre threw him a sly grin over his shoulder as he padded over to the kitchen sink. He emptied the mug and turned to the coffee machine beside it, flicking it on.

 _Uncalled for_ , Philippe thought grumpily. He crawled, hunched, to the foot of the bed to fish his loaned top from the tangle of covers. He slid to the floor, pulling the tracksuit pants up one leg at a time. The bed was only good for a crutch until he ran out of it, and he leaned down to grasp around his ankles, carefully arching his back. He felt the muscle stretch deep, near his spine, and he surprised himself with a growl when the tension left it, muffled when the t-shirt slid down over his face.

It was too good to last. Slowly he unrolled his back, pressing in to his spine with his hands for support; gasping when he reached his full height.

Emre took one look at his scrunched up face and gritted teeth before letting out a low laugh, like a woof _._

“Don’t laugh at me,” Philippe said.

Emre shrugged and laughed some more.

Carefully, Philippe limped across the kitchen to curl his hands around the edge of the counter. Emre was waiting for him, placing his comfortably toasty hand around the back of Philippe’s neck.

“Coffee is no good unless it’s hot,” he explained.

“Coffee is no good unless it has milk in it,” Philippe countered.

“Milk is for the weak,” Emre declared simply.

“Yeah well,” Philippe nudged in to his arm with his chin. “I am weak.” He tried to poke Emre in the chest but hit a rib, therefore causing more damage to his fingers than to Emre; bending them the wrong way back towards his hand. He yelped and cradled them close as they throbbed.

“Yes,” Emre said, “I can see that.”

 _How dare he look amused_ , Philippe thought, feeling himself rile up. He scowled, and made sure to aim for soft underbelly when he poked him again. “Hey!”

Emre let out a cry of indignant surprise, his nose wrinkling in feigned disgust. Philippe did not expect him to do what he did next, which was reach under Philippe’s arms, around his waist and kiss him.

God, Philippe _was_ so weak; because he forgot to be annoyed: grasping on to Emre’s shirt and climbing up him like a ladder to wrap his arms around his neck. He moaned, and was downright ashamed of himself for doing so. _So weak_. _Why is he so attractive. Why does he keep choosing me to kiss? Where did I go right?_

The kiss had maybe lasted several seconds- drawn out in dog years as far as Philippe was concerned- when it happened.

Searing discomfort shot through his stomach and he let go just before Emre did, catching sight of his started expression as he hunched over and cradled his stomach.

Then, like the thunder after that first flashing of lightning; an unprecedented noise rumbled from his gut.

“I’m _starving_ ,” he realised, staring down at it in shock.

“You’re cured!” Emre said. The grin that was plastered all over his face was… _goofy_ , Philippe realised. _He’s a giant_ , _delighted goofball_.

All those hours ago, when Philippe had first met Emre: tall, stoic and silent Emre; without a single emotional ripple in his body; he could not have imagined Emre now: Emre’s soft hands and his cosy body temperature and that way he found kissing Philippe to within an inch of his life the absolute natural progression for every single thing he did. He would never have thought that he was capable of such a daft expression, or that it could ever make him look more… look more…

Something else added to the hunger pangs in his stomach. It was weird, strange and twisty- like something was simultaneously rising and falling inside him. It made him feel a little dizzy, if not nauseous; but honestly: it wasn’t even really all that unpleasant.

Philippe had never felt this feeling before. But, somehow, he knew what it was.

_Not possible._

Emre went ahead and completely misinterpreted his expression.

“I can fix that too,” he smiled, stroking his thumb across Philippe’s chin. He reached up to the top of the fridge.

Philippe began to panic, Emre’s old words flying through his head. Not denying Adam. Not loving Martin. Painful politeness to the waitress. “Missionary”, like that wasn’t normally even enough for him.

_How come I’ve only found you now?_

That was today. What about tomorrow? Was this just pain and disaster waiting to happen?

Philippe had only just stopped feeling sick, he didn’t deserve this.

“What do you like?” Emre was saying, oblivious; spreading takeout menus over the counter.

Philippe hesitated- because it would be so easy to say “Thai”, order in, eat on Emre’s lap and maybe, possibly, bang like that again. And then? What? Philippe would go home anyway, just so much deeper in over his head?

“Actually,” he said. “I’m going to go.”

Emre froze. “Oh,” he said, Philippe liked to think that it was possibly far too casually.

“Yeah. I mean,” Philippe looked at the floor, at the fact there were burn marks in the cracked lino. “My roommate hasn’t heard from me all day. And I have to get ready for work tomorrow.”

“Right,” Emre said. His hand flattened to the counter.

“Uh,” Philippe swallowed. “My stuff?”

“On the dresser.”

Philippe’s washed and dried clothes were folded simply over by the bathroom. He swallowed, paused, and didn’t look back before he ducked behind the curtain.

If he was going to do this, stripping in front of Emre would be the worst thing to do. He felt pathetic anyway. Today was just going to continue as one long occasion for him to feel sorry for himself.

At least his clothes smelled like Emre. He wouldn’t have to ask for that t-shirt, he realised. 

“Wait,” Emre said; when Philippe emerged and crossed the room to pull his coat from behind the door.

Philippe stopped. He didn’t dare think. Stiffness bit at the muscles in his legs.

Emre looked at him for a long second, rubbing at his chin.

“Wait,” he said again, a little more certainly; holding his hand up to stall Philippe when he cut back to the edge of the bed. “Take it.” He bundled his jumper in between his hands, the thick; woollen one that was warmer that it should be warm.

Philippe blinked at him.

“It’s cold out,” Emre said. Something at the edges of his smile looked strained. Philippe had been growing used to it on full strength, so all that realisation did was twist the knife in his gut further.

 _I’m getting out before I become someone else on your list_ , _okay?_

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I’m fine. I owe you too much already. It’s fine.” When Emre held it out to him he placed his hands on it to push it back to him, but Emre just stepped right up close, far too close. Philippe had to tilt his neck upwards.

“I wasn’t offering,” Emre said. “I was insisting.” He pressed it in against Philippe’s chest.

Philippe felt the tension billow in the air between them and quickly tucked his chin down.

“Thanks,” he whispered, to the jumper. He let it hang loose from the collar to untangle the arms. “Uh.” He slid his hands through it and up over his head. Just as his forehead popped through the top of it he felt Emre’s hands on his face and before he kissed him he though, _kudos; that was an effectively executed trap._

“You’re welcome,” Emre said, into Philippe’s half-open lips.

“That was _smooth_ ,” Philippe choked. Emre’s palms pressed into his cheeks and he couldn’t look away, lifted up to his toes when Emre pulled them together again.

“I had a good time,” he managed to cough out at last. _What. Laaame._ His cheeks were on fire.“Thanks again.”

Emre let go, and Philippe stumbled back. He scooped his coat up from where he’d let it fall on to the floor.

“You’re welcome to stay a bit longer,” he said, a low, smooth whisper; as Philippe shoved his arms down the sleeves of hiscoat and shrugged it up his shoulders.

“No, no,” he wheezed. “It’s fine. I- thanks.” He was close enough to see Emre’s pupils narrowing, his eyes two giant amber crystals. _Oh fuck. What am I doing?_

He zipped up. He had been colder than he’d thought.

“Anytime,” Emre said softly, lips curling at the ends.

Philippe reached back and pulled open the door as the handle, cursing when the latch caught and turning desperately to scrabble at it.

He was far too aware of how Emre’s fingers brushed his when they smoothed over his hand and gently unhooked the chain.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

Philippe gritted his teeth and refused to let himself turn around and see him.

“Bye!” he squeaked, and ducked out the door.

* * *

 

**[Step 7: More alcohol. It’s exactly what caused the problem in the first place, obviously]**

Philippe stooped to the lowest of his lows the next morning, when he rang Mr Touré and called in sick.

It was just… that weird feeling in his chest hadn’t gone away. And now it had started to gain weight, so heavy now it anchored him under his duvet.

He could only think about Emre. And it was stupid, given… well, everything. The whole way home on the subway he’d felt as if he was still back there in Emre’s attic, somewhere between the door and Emre, and worse: he was probably never going to forget what kissing him had felt like. Even as he curled up on his side and rasped in to the mouthpiece of his phone, his lips still felt a bit numb from it. And every time he closed his goddamn, traitorous eyes: Emre’s million-watt smile that he’d only begun to see shone behind his eyelids.

Tomorrow, he decided, he would face the world.

Today, however, breakfast might be a stretch.

He must have sounded bad, because the infamously notorious Mr. Touré bought his lame stomach flu excuse, and told him not to come in until he was sure that he wasn’t contagious. Philippe assured him that he was very contagious, like he was up-to-date on the science of it or something, but just for today; and tomorrow he would be in with a sick note.

The next person he called was Raheem, to tell him he wouldn’t be in. He cut him off when Raheem started questioning him about this mysterious illness, because hey: didn’t Philippe always boast about his infallible immune system?

The last person he called- and honestly, he was astonished at his organisational capabilities today- was his sister-in-law, a doctor over at St. Luke’s; to beg her for aforementioned sick note. And he must have sounded _really_ bad; because this was something she routinely refused to do for him, but she agreed.

Eventually, he must have slept, because when he finally managed to drag himself into the sitting room; Oprah re-runs were on, and he knew from his college days that this meant it was after noon. He poured his cereal in to a saucepan, and used up half a carton of milk to cover it; before he settled on the couch. He watched but didn’t watch the show, and the minutes rolled into hours.

His hangover was cured. He knew this wasn’t a hangover. But he felt _awful_. His world felt constricted by a presence that wasn’t there, and there was this vast emptiness inside that no amount of cereal seemed capable of filling.

At four o’clock, his phone rang. Philippe only knew it was four because it was the first time all day he’d looked at a time-keeping device, when it winked at him from the top corner of his humming cell.

He frowned at the unknown number. And then, inexplicably: something tightened his throat. Something that felt horribly like hope.

It wasn’t possible? Surely? But? Who else would call him?

He swiped his thumb across the screen.

“Hello?” His breath caught a bit in his throat.

“Phil?”

Disappointment crashed over him like a tsunami wave. Wow, had he not thought the logistics of that one through. How could Emre call him? For all Philippe knew, he didn’t have a phone. Which in this day and age was unlikely but still possible.

“Hello.”

“It’s Dejan. Dejan, you know, uh. From work.”

It took excessive force for Philippe to swallow. “Cool. Hi.”

Why had he allowed himself that nano-second of hope?

“Hey,” Dejan continued gently. “How are you feeling, buddy?”

Philippe held the phone from his ear and frowned at it. A joke, maybe?

“Your friend Raheem,” Dejan’s voice came from the mouthpiece, and he reluctantly put it back again, “said you had a vomiting bug.”

“Oh,” keeping track of this lie was already hard, “yeah. Stomach flu.” And because that didn’t sound convincing in the slightest, he coughed a bit at the end.

“Look,” Dejan said in a low voice. “This isn’t… it has nothing to do with Saturday night, right?”

Philippe wished it didn’t. But the events of Sunday were intrinsically linked to those of Saturday night, as much as he’d like to disconnect them.

“No,” he tried. “I really am _very_ sick.” If it wasn’t a stomach bug, something else definitely was wrong with him.

“I’d…” Dejan took a deep breath. “I’d like to make it up to you, anyway. If I can.”

Some air went down the wrong pipe when he sharply inhaled, and Philippe coughed for real this time.

“How?” his eyes stung with tears

“I can, uh, I can swing by where you live after work if you’d like. Bring you, I dunno, chicken soup?” Dejan was smiling nervously, Philippe could hear it. “Maybe some hot chocolate if you want it? Some tea? No chocolate biscuits. Scouts honour.”

Philippe swallowed. While he knew right now he looked pathetic, he didn’t want Dejan here. Sure, in the _past_ he’d entertained notions of Dejan feeding him chicken soup on his couch; but that was _before_.

“Look,” he said, “I’m already much better, you know? I had a sleep and it helped. How about I meet you out?”

* * *

 

When Alberto came back from work, with him he brought questions.

Philippe, apart from ducking his head in to Alberto’s room last night to let him know that he was alive, had successfully deflected this situation up until now.

But, curled up on the couch in his boxers with an oversized, woollen jumper that he was sure Alberto had scoured his wardrobe often enough to know did not belong to him, and a large collection of empty _Capn’ Crunch_ boxes; Philippe was super trapped when Alberto put his hands on his hips and said: “Right. Please explain to me why you’re _sulking_.”

“Oh,” Philippe said listlessly. “Is that what it is.”

The door shut belatedly somewhere behind Alberto and Philippe tipped forward on the couch to look around him.

“Raheem?”

“Oh yes,” Alberto said. “Razza here may have some answers for us.”

Philippe groaned, and with one hand pulled Emre’s jumper up over his face. Because he was pathetic, and the vague smell of ash from it seemed to increase his heartbeat from being so slow that he could probably pass for dead.

“Budge up,” Raheem said, and Philippe gave him a disbelieving look before shifting over on the couch.

Alberto nudged in on his other side.

“Guys,” Philippe said weakly, looking down at his hands. “I’m _fine_.”

“You are,” Alberto said, “so _not_ fine. You still won’t tell me where you were yesterday.”

“And,” Raheem interjected, prodding his arm with an annoyingly pointy finger, “not to _mention_ : Dejan brought you home on Saturday?”

“Only you _didn’t_ come home on Saturday?”

They gave each other a knowing look before looking expectantly at Philippe.

“You guys,” he croaked, looking straight ahead. “It wasn’t that.”

Alberto put his hand on his knee. “Did something happen?” he asked gently.

“What?” Philippe had to struggle to keep his tone below a shouting decibel. “No! I mean. It wasn’t- we didn’t- he didn’t…” He trailed off helplessly.

“He _asked_ me about you today,” Raheem said. “He looked very distressed. He wanted your _number._ ”

“I don’t care,” Philippe said. This was probably the wrong thing to say. The other two looked at each other in surprise.

“You can tell us if something happened,” Raheem said, gently rubbing his arm.

“If he, you know. If you didn’t want, you know.” Alberto swallowed awkwardly. “We can always egg his place.”

“Guys,” Philippe said, rather fondly. “It’s _fine_. I went back with him, yeah,” he fast forward a bit, “but I just slept on his couch, is all. Nothing happened. I was smashed. Raheem, you _know_ I was smashed.”

“Right,” Raheem said. “Because _that’s_ where it gets interesting, yeah?” He reached into a pocket inside his blazer. “After lunch this guy came in who knew Dejan, but he asked for _you_. He wanted to make sure you got something.”

Alberto looked at Philippe strangely. “Who?”

Philippe blinked, and shrugged. “You’re going to have to give me more details.” His heart started to pound.

 _Emre_ , his brain told him, rudely.

“Right,” Raheem said, obviously loving the attention he was getting by drawing out this suspense. “Then I said that I knew you and I could get to you, whatever it was. The guy was from IT, said his name was Lambert.”

 _Lambert_. Philippe frowned. Why did that sound familiar?

Raheem squinted at his face for a reaction, and looked disappointed when Philippe obviously appeared just as clueless as he did. “He gave me this,” he held up a small, rectangular business card, and waved it under Philippe’s nose, “and it has a rather interesting message on the back. Want me to read it?”

“Raheem,” Philippe said, “Oh my god. Just get to the point.”

Raheem cleared his throat. “It’s in block capitals,” he explained, “ _He likes you_ , _cub._ Like what? What does that even _mean?_ Okay, okay; sorry: brackets: _Call him_ ; exclamation mark, close brackets. And there’s a number.”

Philippe could feel their eyes boring in to him. On the TV, Oprah was giving a family a new people-carrier.

His heart was pounding so hard that his whole body shook.

“Can I see it?” he asked, holding out his hand. He flipped over the message. “It _is_ a business card. _Rodger’s Services_.” And under it: _Adam Lallana_ , _HR Consultant._

It clicked. _Adam’s friend Rickie from IT_. Philippe reflected on fluffy, bright-eyed, eager-beaver Adam and thought _of course he works in human resources_.

He smiled. Alberto nudged him with his elbow.

“ _Dude_ ,” he said. “What is going on?”

“Yeah,” Raheem leaned for the remote and shut off the TV. “Spill.”

Philippe closed his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to relive this. Tomorrow he would be over it.

“It’s no big deal,” he said casually. “I met someone yesterday, is all.”

“ _Someone?”_

 _“_ What? _Who?”_

“Oh, you know,” he said airily, examining his fingernails. “Not a big deal.” He swallowed. “What time is it?” he asked nonchalantly.

In his peripheral vision Alberto squinted at him shrewdly.

“Seven. Why?”

“Oh,” he said lightly. “I have to go.”

He made to get up, but he had been sitting for so long that his legs had seized up again. He huffed and fell back to the couch. If today was his pity day, tomorrow he was signing up to a gym to work on more supple muscles.

 “Where?” Alberto asked.

“I’m meeting Dejan,” he said. “For a drink, at Sakho’s on twelfth.”

“Why?” Raheem wanted to know. Of course he did.

Philippe wasn’t sure he could tell him. About Emre. He handed the card back to Raheem.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Aren’t you going to call the number?”

“No,” Philippe sighed, “I’m not going to use it.”

“Who _likes_ you?” Alberto quipped.

“They won’t after a bit,” Philippe grumbled, as he hobbled towards the bathroom. “It’s fine.” He waved them back when they both scrambled to their feet. “Bit stiff.”

 _Pathetic_ , he thought, running the shower. Something nice and warm and tingly ran up his spine and it was very upsetting that he’d allowed it to happen.

He wondered if he was going to cry.

 _Tomorrow_ , he told himself. _Tomorrow you’ll be over it._

* * *

 

Dejan had offered to meet at one of the fanciest bars Philippe had ever heard of, and a quick Google search informed him that he’d have to go in full office attire or not at all.

Which was just… perfect.

 _This is not my scene_ , Philippe decided, exactly three and a half seconds after he’d walked through the door of an obscenely cool bar area. _It’s more like a club?_ Dejan waved at him, and Philippe took a deep breath before he went over to him.

He hoisted himself on to the stool- _too short for this_ , _far too short for this_ \- and flattened his hands on the cool countertop to balance himself.

“Alright?” Dejan asked, placing a steadying hand on his elbow. “Would you like something?”

“I’m okay,” Philippe said. “I was sick, you know?” Then, “to be honest, I had such a bad hangover yesterday that I never want to drink again?”

Dejan smiled in to his half-empty pint. “Ah yes,” he said. Then he winked at him. “Some say that’s the best hangover cure of all you know.”

“What is?”

“To drink more alcohol.”

Dejan smiled and Philippe found himself smiling back.

“Look,” he said. “No hard feelings? About yesterday? I’m sorry I fell all over you drunk.”

Dejan held his hand out. “I’m sorry too. For being an inhospitable prick. Friends?”

Philippe took it and shook. “Friends.”

Dejan grinned in to his glass. “You’re a good kid, Phil.”

Philippe took a deep breath. “Actually,” he said, because Dejan wasn’t so bad, really. Philippe had been cured of his crush, but he decided then that he’d still trust Dejan with his kitten and life savings.

“I am really sorry,” if it came out in the wrong order, was it still a lie? “I just…” He couldn’t believe what he was about to say, “I met this guy,” _What am I_ doing? “And it wasn’t going to work.” _Oh my God._ “And I’m still… So Saturday I was…”

Dejan smiled and patted his arm. “Getting over it?”

“Yeah,” Philippe said sadly, watching Dejan swirl the ends of his drink. “Thanks though. It’s good we’re cool.”

His heart was like a dumbbell in his chest. Maybe he’d take something to drink after all.

“No worries,” Dejan said. “I’ll still bring you chocolate muffins, eh?” He winked at him, and Philippe smiled bashfully at the counter.

“I think it’s about time I returned the favour,” he said. Dejan punched his arm, and Philippe shoved back.

“This isn’t very dignified of us,” Dejan pointed out, looking around and then winking at him devilishly. Philippe laughed.”It’s good we’re cool,” he said, quietly, repeating Philippe’s words. He patted his shoulder and pushed his remained pint towards him. “On me,” he said, “I haven’t been home yet you know, and getting the subway past a certain hour isn’t recommended when you look as high class as I am. I might be mistaken for owning a Rolex.”

“Thanks,” Philippe said softly.

Dejan smiled at him, and then pushed off the seat. “See you tomorrow?” He squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“Tomorrow,” Philippe confirmed. He turned to watch him go. Dejan twisted around to wave before he went out the door, and that was when Philippe saw the faded denim jacket that had no business being there at all.

Philippe smiled. Philippe smiled and smiled and smiled. Philippe smiled like he was the only carrier of electric lighting in the world.

The denim jacket’s wearer pulled himself up in to Dejan’s now empty seat.

“Listen,” Philippe started.

“I don’t normally do this,” he interrupted, then paused. He coughed and signalled to the bartender.

“What?” Philippe was amazed he could even speak.

“Date,” Emre said.

There was a second, then. There was a second where he looked at Philippe and Philippe suddenly remembered those tiny soft kisses on his eyelids.

“You ran off yesterday before I could ask for your number,” he continued smoothly. “But I got a call,” he looked radiant, maybe the only other carrier of electric lighting in the world, “from some friends of yours.” He smiled at the waiter. “Pint, please; Carlsberg” then, “they told me you’d be here.”

 _He came here looking for me_ , Philippe thought, floating. _For me. Because he wanted to see me again. Because he wants to see me again and again._

“They _also_ told me that you’d kill them if I told you that.” He gifted Philippe with half of that bright, bright smile. His eyes glinted honey in the dull bar light.

Philippe smiled and smiled and smiled and _smiled_. Actually, he was rather certain that somehow he had detached his brain from inside his head and it was orbiting the earth. Or maybe he was just drunk again?

He reached down the bar, just able to stretch his fingers to brush the edge of one of Emre’s ridiculously warm hands.

“I think I’ll let them live,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still with me !!!! I am actually dying to know what you think. Kudos and all sorts of comments definitely most appreciated. 
> 
> (Btw all of the steps come from various bits of advice thrown at me over the years while I've been hungover and pulling a Philippe so lying horizontally until it passed.)


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